


Have You Seen the Saucers?

by SamuelMaleski



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (1963), Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: 1980s, Body Horror, Cryptozoology, F/F, Lesbian Character, Politics, Psychological Horror, Road Trips, Serial Killers, Shameless leftism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-31
Updated: 2018-09-01
Packaged: 2019-07-05 00:50:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15852855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SamuelMaleski/pseuds/SamuelMaleski
Summary: 4706. The War is reaching its climax, and the enemy is retreating. Of course, something might still go wrong. And in the wake of a battle that will redefine the cosmos, a surgeon turned army doctor calls upon one of her oldest friends, to task him with an incredibly dangerous quest.1981. Ronald Reagan is President of the United States. While the country is waiting for an age of prosperity and plenty that would never come, a series of gruesome murders is shaking the public opinion. But it’s probably just what happens when you let deviants and communists roam the streets. It can’t be something else. Something that makes people disappear and toys with their bodies. Something that thinks life itself is nothing more than an act of consummation.Or can it?Imperium Year 954. We are the Noth. We are coming.





	1. PROLOGUE: Anatomy of Three American Crimes

 It was an ordinary day for Amanda Jones.

She woke up, made her daughter breakfast, sent her to school, and kissed her husband goodbye. She went to Mr. Samuels’ store, a few blocks away, to pick up the latest piles of manifestos she had made him print. The streets were cold. Even when it was summer, they were cold – dirt, graffiti, cold looks in hearts frozen by misery and the hatred of others – and this was a December morning. You had to dig deep to find safety and human contact here. Which made her family, and the little group of friends and fellow activists she had formed, all the more precious to her. She wasn’t gonna settle for this. She would ask for more. And she would get it.

She handed a few of her tracts to people. A lot of them didn’t even pay attention and threw them away, but if only one mind could be changed … A single drop creates so many ripples …

It was one of her days off. No kids to teach today. Good. She had a couple meetings, in small rooms filled with cigarette smoke in which a diverse crowd – homosexuals, young students with fire in their eyes, black and Latino people this supposedly great country had let down – tried to make the world a better place. The hours flew by – and afterwards, she went down to the grocery store, and bought a nice chicken, and some potatoes.

 

It was an ordinary day for Amanda Jones, and then she met the woman. She was standing just in front of her house. She didn’t do much. Just smiled. And behind that smile … Oh god, the things behind that smile …

Amanda Jones went back to her small, narrow house and waited in the old chair, its cloth worn and dusty.

Her husband came home early. He usually did on Thursdays. Their daughter hadn’t come back yet. She smiled, leaned in, and kissed him.

And while their lips touched, she slowly pulled out the knife she had hidden in her dress and stabbed him in the neck.

Once. Twice. Thrice. Geysers of blood drew abstract patterns on her apron.

His eyes … Agony. Betrayal. Worry. And then nothing.

She smiled. Without joy. Turned on the oven, and put the potatoes to simmer. And then, started the carving.

It was an unconventional, but apparently rather tasty dish, she would later tell the police.

 

 

 

-

 

It was an ordinary day for Terence Bates.

He was on his way to a town hall meeting. The election was soon – and by God, he was now sure he would win. It had been a tough, messy road, but when he was out there, speaking to the crowd … Something just made sense; it connected and sparkled – he could feel it, and so could them. They trusted him. They loved him. They would help him get that position he had coveted for so long, and then, well … Mayor could be a first step to so, so many things … A man like him, governor? Senator? One should focus on the matters at hand, of course, but a bit of ambition never hurts – especially when it allowed one to try to make these great pursuits, liberty, justice, happiness, so often empty and manipulated by the cunning guileful tongues of pencil-pushers and empty propaganda robots spouting nonsense with a Southern twang on national television, into a living, breathing, beautiful reality.

He stopped for gas. He had his assistant, with him, and two bodyguards – a necessary precaution, he was told. While one of them filled up the tank, he went to buy some snacks, and greeted the owner with his biggest, warmest smile.

 

It was an ordinary day for Terence Bates, and then he saw the man. Leaning against a wall, reading a newspaper. He didn’t do much. Just nodded. And then, Terence knew what he had to do.

He grabbed a bag of crisps, and headed back to his vehicle. While the strong, muscular men he had hired for his protection went back inside, he casually spilled some of the gas on the ground near him and the car. Then, before his entourage could react, he casually, almost playfully, lit a match and let it fall.

Fire makes such pretty shapes, he thought. He sat down, as the flames started to gnaw and bite his legs. He opened his crisps, and ate them slowly, carefully, enjoying their cheap industrial taste as much as he enjoyed his flesh melting, bursting and blackening, the finely-cut clothes he wore turning to ashes. The others were trapped in the car. It was burning as well. A vehicle headed straight for the river Styx, for the fires of Hell and all that jazz. 

He didn’t look away, even when his hair caught fire. And died happy, with the weird taste of his liquefied tongue mixed with the crispy crunchy delight of corporate nondescript junk food on his mind.

 

 

-

 

It was not an ordinary day for Karen Mantzoukas.

She was dying, you see.

She didn’t understand why. She had taken that road hundreds of time, knew every inch and every turn. Why didn’t she see that tree? How did it get here? It wasn’t possible, it didn’t make sense.

She was crawling through the snow. She couldn’t walk. She left a red trail behind her, as her limbs were going numb – the darkness had fallen in the woods.

Meter after excruciating meter, she was following the road. Please, please, can a car just come already … I don’t want to die …

 

She got her wish. She wouldn’t die. Not today, at least.

They found her first. There was the man, and the woman, and behind, all the tribe, all animal-like, full of fangs and fur and claws and feathers.

Surely it couldn’t be real. It must be a hallucination, the product of the cold and the trauma and the fear …

“Oh, but we are real, Hunted. And we are going to have _such_ fun together …”

She tried to scream, but she couldn’t. She tried to move, but she couldn’t.

When a car passed near that exact same spot, neither her nor the strange figures were to be seen. The snow was immaculate.

 

Nothing had happened.

Nothing ever happens in America.

America is the greatest country there ever was.

Don’t you know that?


	2. PART ONE: Salvador Six, s/t coordinates 17-2-06-12 by 03: a Touristic Primer (4706 edition)

**  
**

She remembered the fields.

 

Green, and lush. Stretching as far as the eye could see. But no children were running through them. The only thing breaking their impeccable quiet were the tombstones. Rows and rows of stone tablets, crosses, moons and David’s stars, little white dots, foam in the emerald sea. They looked like chess pieces that had fallen from the pocket of some mysterious god above and landed here.

But they hadn’t, of course. She had taken the bodies there herself, in a small recon ship. She could have avoided the trip, and in fact, many had recommended her to. But she refused. She had known these men and women in life, felt their blood spilling and their hearts stopping. She could not erase them from her memories, write them off as yet more victims of the raging war.

The ceremony had been beautiful. Very dignified. And after it, she had grabbed some alcohol and darted in the forest to look at the Earth sunset – alone with the whispering dead, and memories of a warmer time. She remembered the last day before it started. They had taken the children to the park, a place not too different from here. Food and drink and games. And, as the children were having their fun, the feeling, almost unbearable now, of her wife’s arm around her neck, her lips whispering love right into her ear.

 

Look at the gravestones. How many of them had children of their own …?

How many more gravestones would there be?

As night was falling, she started to head back. Gathering herself – poise, dignity, like an armor behind which she was shut. Back to the battlefield. With a new purpose.

 

 

-

 

The rain had stopped. Only weighty mist remained.

The woman was climbing a flight of stairs, or rather, a bunch of wooden planks stuck in the muddy earth of the hill. Down below, she could see the encampment, and the hundreds of soldiers moving about like busy little bees. There was still much to do, after all, in these final moments the night fell. For more than a few of them, it would be their last night on Earth – an unusually calm one, spent in meditation, frightful prayers, and confused remembrances. The quiet before the storm.

She could see the automated sentries, their silver turrets glistening, patrolling around the tents and prefab buildings. She could see the ship they all came from – one of these big, bulky troop carriers, ugly but efficient. And she could see her own quarters. The big white tent, marked with the green symbol of the Caduceus Company. She ought to be there. Preparing the different types of injections. Discussing priorities with the nurses. Checking over her surgical tools for the twentieth time. What had become her routine over the past few months? God, months only? It felt so much longer …

 

But she wasn’t there, was she?

Doctor Channary Deauclaire. Deserting.

 _It wasn’t like that_ – she told herself. _I have a job to do_. _I’m the only one who knows how much danger they’re in_.

 

She wanted to believe her own words so badly.

It was a hard climb, even for someone as physically fit as her – the rain had turned all soil into slippery, treacherous mud, and her ascension thus was rhythmed by a series of semi-falls, always stopped at the last moment. She didn’t seem to ever stop, though – as soon as she had found a semblance of balance again, on she persevered, despite the apparent weight of the backpack she carried. After maybe twenty minutes of the arduous climb, she came to find herself on a rocky plateau which overlooked both the encampment in the valley, and the barren, vast desolations ahead.

They weren’t burnt because of any practical reason. Their enemy didn’t need resources, or to kill anyone. It was simple spite. Retaliation. Like any bully – stand up for yourself and you get a kick in the groin. In this case, that kick was the hellfire of dozens of ships raining plasma on what had been, a few months ago, fertile farmland. There were some tree trunks still standing on her promontory – burnt and blackened, fallen over in the mud, but still solid. She looked at the woeful sight, and then sat down on the tree, slowly unpacking the device she had been carrying with her. A weird sort of miniature satellite dish, it looked like – parabola and antennae included. She stuck its feet in the wet ground, and starting pressing buttons on the side. A sequence, repeated over and over and over – echoed by the lights the device emitted, turning on and off and on again. Her mind started to drift, and soon, she was only pressing the keys through pure reflexes – her thoughts coming back to events long gone …

 

-

 

She had first met the Doctor … Oh, damn, she wasn’t getting any younger, was she? She was only an intern at the time. Starry-eyed, bubbly, terrible sense of humour, too gay to function. And all of the sudden, there was this strange man coming into her life. Long scarf, a smile that had way too many teeth in it. Penchant for offering candy to strangers, a trait she usually associated with a far less savory kind of character. But still, he was just wonderful – waltzed in and saved countless lives. She helped, of course. A tiny bit. She didn’t come along, though, become another one of his … Assistants? Was that the word? Even then, she had responsibilities. To her family, to her patients … It had been her dream, her whole life, she wasn’t just going to let it go for some reckless gallivanting. The world needed doctors – of all kinds. And if she could be one, well, all the better. And she did – a neurosurgeon. The best neurosurgeon in the galaxy, some said.

 

The Doctor and she stayed in contact. Even a man as erratic as him needs contacts, every now and then. He knew a lot about medicine (about everything, really), but sometimes, a little bit of professional technique can’t hurt. Their encounters were few and far between, so much so that he never seemed to wear the same face twice, but they were always exciting. How many had she met? She counted - the scarf one, the one with the celery, the grumpy Scottish one, and the charming dandy who visited her with a color-changing alien and a girl from Edwardian England...

 

She could still remember the last time they met. At that moment, he looked like a praying mantis draped in red velvet – and she was all alone in a deserted hospital, just before it all started …

 

“ _They’ve all left.”_

_“Why would they do such a thing?”_

_“It’s not just some kind of craze. I thought you’d know. The Noth fleets are on the move. Three outposts have been obliterated in the Perseus Nebula, and they’ve just raided Elsar Kalza, just one star system away from Chronos._ ”

God. It all felt so distant.

Lost in thought, her mind drifted …

 

-

 

… to a spaceport.

Big, empty halls, as far as the eye could see. Without the usual hustle and bustle, the place looked more like a cathedral than anything else. An ex-voto to gods that had deserted its builders.

The only sound, ringing through it, was the echo of the pre-recorded message, calling all the conscripts to platform 67. It was the voice of a woman – utterly joyless. Even she couldn’t pretend.

Deauclaire wasn’t moving. She rested on one of the countless empty chairs in the lounge areas – the tables in front of her still covered with empty Styrofoam cups of coffee and intelligent newspapers (one page, the contents shifting as you read through them! the future of information! – she could still remember the commercials that aired on the space channels when she was a kid), signs of a recent evacuation.

 

She had been here for a while. Her wife, Rita, in a grey summer dress, red hair cascading down to her shoulders, was asleep, her head resting in her lap. She didn’t dare disturb her. She just caressed the mane of scarlet locks, staring straight ahead. Holding back tears, and trying, desperately, to hold back time, to stop the deep, terrible wound of the parting to come from ever happening.

But she claimed no lordship over time. And soon, another blast of syllables from the loudspeakers woke Rita up. Reassurances about their children were exchanged – yes, the latest would still be able to go to her dance classes, don’t worry Chan; no, there shouldn’t be shortages on Adam’s testosterone injections, don’t worry Ri …

They held each other, for a long time. And then broke off their embrace, very slowly, very carefully. It’s odd how certain moments just remained engraved in your mind – like the brand on a convict’s skin. Months after this, Channary could still remember everything about the way they left each other – their skins touching, soft and cold in the artificial atmosphere. Rita’s outstretched, pale hand, dotted with freckles, her nails painted red. She was holding that hand, the face of the woman she loved catching the rays of the red sun above them – until she wasn’t.

 

A lonely, fragile hand, in the dark and cold.

She still dreamt about it. About what it meant for her – for them. About the day, where, maybe, she would get to intertwine her fingers with these ones, dancing in the chiaroscuro of the terminal.

The vision disappeared, slowly. Fading back to sand and mud – the hand persisting in her dreamscape, until it too faded away. It was all replaced by a joyful whizz, making the atmosphere around her vibrate.

She raised her eyes. That sound … The unmistakable tune of a TARDIS travelling through time …

He had come.

 

 

-

 

The first thing the Doctor noticed when getting out of his TARDIS was the mud. Terrible thing, that. Snow? Fine. Lava, even better – more dramatic. But mud? Not only was it boring – I mean, what was it, beyond soil that had decided to spite people –, it tended to ruin his coats, and that was just unacceptable.

The second was the puzzled face of the person in front of him. Person? Woman, big green eyes, brown skin, short well-kept black hair, something to do with medicine – ah, yes, Deauclaire. Obvious, really. The reference to her status as an employee of the Caduceus in that space-time message he received should have tipped him off. She had changed. Older, obviously, although that was to be expected – she had only started her career, last time their paths had crossed. But more than that – worn out. Not just tired, or ill-looking, although she certainly gave the impression she could use some extra sleep and maybe a couple of weeks in a spa. He had seen this look before, in old soldiers telling tales around a campfire at UNIT headquarters, in these people that say they’re fine way too much. A pinch of regret, but mostly, this strange emotion, whose aroma you could almost breathe around them – the feeling that they were searching for some long lost piece of their own being, of their own soul, that they had somehow misplaced through their peregrinations.

 

Oh, yes, and she seemed utterly confused by him showing up to the meeting she had herself arranged.

“What is it?” he asked, trying to not let an awkward silence settle in, which was, he had been told, the correct course of action to adopt in these situations. “Expecting someone else?”

“No. No, of course not.” She chuckled – with honest joy, but a sort of hazy delay that seemed to indicate that she hadn’t really got to exercise her smiling muscles much, of late. “It’s just … I’ve never seen that face before. I, uh … Like the coat. It’s very dapper.”

“Do you honestly think so?”

“Well … There’s only so many military khakis you can see before you get tired of them, you know? I mean, look around you. I can’t see you making the view any worse. Although, there are probably some tactical disadvantages. Obvious target, much?”

“Better me than bystanders.” He made a few steps on the promontory, gazing at his surroundings. Not his favourite time period, this. He knew, of course, that one day those hills would be covered with trees again – along with some pale, beautiful monuments of marble listing the dead. But it didn’t mean looking at history being made, in the mud and the blood, was any less painful. Actually, if he had the choice, he would prefer not to have to look at it anymore. He turned to Channary once again –

“Can we get inside the TARDIS? It’s a bit cold out here. And muddy. So much mud they could export it.”

“No, actually. I’ve got a tree trunk. Come and sit, we can share.”

“What a generous offer.”

“Seriously, though. I have things to tell you. Important things. That should be said before you drag me in your box, show me the interior design, offer me tea and biscuits and then start a lecture about the different kinds of alien shellfish. I know your type. “

“Ouch. Touché.” He made his way, slowly but deliberately, to join her in silent contemplation. “You know, it’s not a bad spot. We could have a picnic. If it weren’t a war zone.” He could feel her tense up. Bad move. He sighed, and then let out what had been bothering him since he had gotten her message. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For not telling you. About the war. About what was to come.”

“You kind of did. Just before it started to really go to shit. You showed up, looking all crossed and Scottish, and …”

He raised a hand and stopped her dead in her tracks. “No, no, that won’t do. Hasn’t happened for me yet, see.”

“Really? Uh. I assumed he wasn’t one of the most recent. He gave kind of a vintage vibe. But anyway. I understand. There are rules. You can’t just cheat and get away with it. I mean, god knows I’d have preferred to stay at home, doing my nine to five at the local hospital and then coming back to Rita and the kids, but it just wasn’t an option. People were dying, I could save some, so I had to go.”

He thought about her grim air, and, taken by a sudden burst of anxiety, asked – “Rita, is she alright?”

“Oh, yes. She misses me. I miss her. But then again, look at all these poor buggers down below. They got loved ones too. Whatever tragedies I’m going through, they’re of the very banal kind.”

“Tragedies nonetheless.”

“But I said I would act my part, and I’m keeping that promise. The Hippocratic Oath, and the interpretation we have made of it, is a harsh master, but I do think it’s a good way. The best I know. So don’t worry. I’ve not called upon you for any kind of personal favor. I don’t want you to ensure my well-being in the battles to come, I don’t want a meeting with my wife or a fancy dinner or anything like that. No, it’s all much more practical. Basically, I’m recruiting you.”

“Oh. I’ve never been recruited before. Well. Not in such a polite manner, anyway. And for what exactly? If it involves guns, swords or hamsters, I’m afraid I will have to decline.”

 

“Not as fun, I’m afraid. See –“, she started, as she leaned back, reminiscing with a tense concentration, “- yesterday, something quite odd happened. The main forces of the Imperium haven’t showed up yet, but they had sent a few scout ships to patrol the area. Which were destroyed by our good old human battle cruisers. Or so it seemed. There were … Strange readings in the area afterwards. Waves bouncing around, energy peaks. The high command didn’t pay too much attention to it, but I had a quick look. And it rang a bell. I’m obviously a neophyte compared to you, but I do know some time travel science. Be it only because it comes in handy in some really weird medical cases, and because the Agency helps with running our hospitals. Anyway – this was definitely time travel. Nice little artron patterns. I’m not familiar with the way their technology operates, but from what I gather, it’s a sort of weird unstable energy matrix. It can’t time travel as it is, but if it were overcharged, by, let’s say, being hit with a big-ass gun, well, who knows … So … You understand, now?” A pause. “That’s not a rhetorical question, Doctor. I do really need to know whether you understand what that implies. Do you know who the Noth are, at this point in your life? Do you know what they’ve done?”

“I know they’re one of the most dangerous species in the galaxy. Faceless dilettantes with delusions of grandeur, stealing the faces of humans, aliens, or beasts and going around in merry killing sprees done in the name of some kind of grand religious design.”

“Good summary. Concise. Bit too objective if you want my opinion, could have done with more contempt. But yeah. They just see … All life in the cosmos as utterly meaningless. Things. Things they can dispose of, however they want to. Use ‘em and throw ‘em. I mean, that’s why we took so long to start an open war – they really weren’t interested in a prolonged conflict. Just … Coming and going. Taking people and resources. Killing people and burning outposts. But in a scattered way. You just ended up accepting it. You saw it as one of the constants of the universe, you know? Like solar flares and thunderstorms, it just kinda happened, people mourned, and people moved on. But then, they got bolder, and we said ‘we need to make a stand’.”

“You freed yourself. From fear, from passivity.”

“And in doing so, got a huge lot of people killed. They’re not that many, the Noth, and they don’t go out of their homeworld _en masse_. But they have guns. Big ones. And legions of droids ready to go out and do the dirty work. We’re holding ground, but only because we’re throwing more soldiers at them that they can deal with. Which is a sound strategy, and also an unbearable one. What are you supposed to do in a situation like that? You ought to preserve all life, that’s the oath you’ve sworn, and yet you end up in a situation where you’re trying to determine what kind of death is more palatable to you, easier to deal with. But anyway. Eh”, she snickered bitterly, “got a bit emotional there. Sorry. You’re not my therapist. You’re not even _A_ therapist.” She paused. “Are you?”

“I dabbled. Can’t say I learnt much from that Sigmund fellow, though. Insufferable pedant, and coming from me, that means something. Also, he had the strangest obsession for oblong cigars. I don’t need to be a trained professional to be a friendly ear, though. I’ve not always been great at that, especially since I’ve taken this face, but I can try.”

“That’s very kind. But I’ll have time to deal with all that. Later. For now, we need to track down this ship. Because the Noth don’t care, for one second, about the integrity of our history – and they’ll happily screw the space-time continuum beyond repair if they’re allowed to.”

“I’m not a hired assassin.”

“I’m not asking you to kill them. Maybe it will come to that. Maybe it won’t. We can always hope for the better, though.”

The Doctor stood there, confused and worried. “You’ve changed.”

A smile. Now, this one is joyless. Cold as the mud. “I’m not the one who’s switched faces.”

 

 

-

A few minutes afterwards, the Doctor was typing something on the TARDIS console, trying to pinpoint where the ship had disappeared, while Channary was leaning against his apartment bike. A bit of an oddity, under the white, high-tech lightning of the spaceship. Then again, that was what the Doctor was about. He could travel, he could run, he could pop in people’s lives here and there and make them see things they would never have believed otherwise. He could do anything that she couldn’t …

Trying to turn her mind away from these grim considerations, she instead turned to the Time Lord – “Exercising?”

“Pardon?”

“The bike. Is it for exercise, or did you just go, you know what would complement my big empty white room that looks like a depressive Swedish architect’s idea of a feng shui garden? Some sport equipment from the local mall. Do they have malls on Gallifrey?”

“They do not. If it were the case, though, I’d wager they would have some pretentious moniker. Like … “The Stores of Rassillon”. All-you-can-eat buffet, Cerulean fashion, et caetera. And yes, the bike is for exercise. Mel made me buy it. Well. Trade it against some gemstones I found in a dragon’s cave, to be precise. Apparently, I needed to get in shape. Too much chocolate cake and Chinese takeaways.”

“That’s a good question, though. Does the mass of the Time Lord remain through regeneration? Like … If you get a lot fatter during that life, will your next incarnation carry all those extra pounds, or be taller to compensate, or is it just random?”

“You know,” he said while raising an eyebrow, “I really don’t know.”

“They don’t teach you that at Time School?”

“Biology wasn’t my best subject, shall we say. I … may have skipped a few lectures and grabbed the course notes from my best friend. Wait. Are you diagnosing me?”

“Well … You can’t blame a girl. Try to be a neurosurgeon dealing with the rarest, fanciest cases in the galaxy and then end up doing military medicine. I mean … There’s not that much variety. It’s like, laser wound, laser wound, laser wound, shrapnel, concussion, Brian’s got diarrhea because he didn’t follow the instructions on his rations package, laser wound, laser wound, goddamit Brian can’t you read. Busywork. I’m enjoying the distraction while it lasts.”

“Not easy being a doctor of war?”

“Oh, actually, it’s pretty easy. It’s just sad.”    

 

Silence settled in. Soon to be ruptured by the TARDIS emitting a series of exciting beeps and boops, surely signifying that some major discovery had been made. The Doctor turned his eyes back to the console, and he frowned, looking obviously concerned. 

“I guess that our Noth friends didn’t go where we want them?”

“You can say that.”

“Where are they, then?”

“Earth. 1981 Earth.”


	3. PART 2: Around and in an inconspicuous village in Minesotta

Karen couldn’t move. She could barely breathe. The claws of the machine were biting into her flesh – the pain was dull, and altogether bearable, but never went away. The room was dark … So dark … Except the pool of light where she was standing, oozing from a single candle left next to her twisted body, as an offering before a barbaric idol. And she could only hear, besides her short, panicked breaths, the chanting coming from upstairs, the words repeated over and over and over …

 

_We are the Way, we are the Life._

A sinister chorus that never stopped.

_We devour and we take and we burn and we bed._

_We are regal, for we reify._

_We are the Hunters of Hunted._

_We are the Masters of the Cattle._

_We are the Noth._

 

The songs kept echoing in the night and the cold, and she almost wished that she had passed away in the car. Better than the fear, the constant fear she felt at this moment, in every molecule of air hanging in the stale, dusty, miasma-ridden atmosphere. The fear and the loneliness, as she remained here, her arms forced to stretch by clamps and beams, the one source of blood and life in a land of darkness filled with … something. Something she could not look at; and could not look away from.

 

-

 

Maria Parker was moving frantically, pacing up and down. She just had Karen’s parents on the phone, and she was now trying to get some updates from the police. She was in the front of her tiny house, the telephone’s cable coming out of the doorframe like an umbilical cord.

It was snowy. Snowy and lonely. She was accustomed to it, really. The smart wunderkinds often are. Of course, that usually fades when they enter their teenage years, but … Some don’t have the funds to go to college and pull themselves by their bootstraps. A lot of the people here around her had inherited their businesses and wealth: farms and cafés, everywhere, like weed in a garden. She didn’t – and there are limits to the State’s love of self-sacrifice, or so people said these days. So she had gotten a job as a librarian, moved here, and now spent a lot of her days reading. Not worth the shiny diploma one would get in a university. But good enough. Characters, past and fictional, made up most of her friends. Them and Karen, of course.

She looked behind her shoulder. The tea was cold, now. She had prepared it for her, almost two days ago. That was the worst thing, with people just vanishing. The void they left behind. Forgotten objects, broken pieces of self.

Karen had been the only one who had cared about her. Cared about knowing who she was, what she was like. What she thought. They’d go lend a hand to people, together. Shared drinks while making plans about the future. She was her best friend. And now, she was gone. Swallowed whole by the world outside, by the cold and the howling wind, by America with its mountains and cities and highways …

 

 

-

 

It was an ordinary car park. Plenty of cars, obviously. Their spots arranged in neat little geographical patterns, as the vehicles coming in were blood cells carrying vital information to the necessary receptors, or believers taking their seat in joyful congregation. A McDonalds, which obviously had seen better days – the workers were catching a break, smoking cigarettes near the bins, huddled together to keep warm in the biting, cold January air. A movie theatre, of a pretty sleazy sort. And beyond that little island at the edge of the city, visited at semi-regular intervals by white and yellow buses conveying people to and fro, it was just roads and roads, snakes of concrete smothering the horizon in their rings under an empty, sunless white sky. It was raining dull light, and occasionally, some thin snow that fell to the ground and quickly disintegrated into tepid pools of murky water.

In one of the most remote corners of that charming area, not far from a picnic table that could have used some thorough cleaning-up, a police box appeared in an unidentified technological whirring, hidden by some meagre, leafless bushes. Before long, a South Asian woman in the discrete, black battle gear of Earth Expeditionary Forces left, followed by a blonde, plump man in a retina-rupturing coat. She seemed to realize something, and pushed him back in the box, closing the door behind her and yelling something indistinct about discretion being important and period appropriate clothing. A few minutes later, they reappeared, the man this time wearing a formal suit – with some concessions made to his eccentric tastes in dress, silver cat brooch with blue spots for eyes over the heart, and ochre cravat. They started to move forwards, still bickering about some complex issue –

 

 

“No need for complaining, I did get us there in the end, didn’t I?”

“It shouldn’t be so hard to calibrate a single time vessel, Doctor! You overshot by thirty-five years!”

“Yes, well, 2016 is an important year for this country, the TARDIS was drawn to it. Important does not mean good.”

“God, you’re right. I was looking at the candidates – that man is a neurosurgeon?! Seriously? Talk about a stain on the honor of the profession.”

“It takes quite a lot of trial and error to get to you.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere.”

They had moved well into the car park, now, and stopped to survey their environment.

 

 

“Why did the TARDIS bring us here, exactly?” asked Deauclaire. “I doubt there’s a great many Noth hiding here. Unless they’ve been hired to work in the fast food industry. Yuck, that’s a thought. As if burgers could get even less appealing.”

“Well, I assume their ship must have crashed somewhere, leaving them to travel the old-fashioned way. The TARDIS just picked up their signature and followed it to the last place where it echoed – chances are it would be a train station, or a car park. A big communication hub. Now just have to do the detective work. Go mingle, talk to the locals, follow breadcrumbs, the daily Doctoring life.”

Deauclaire sent the Doctor a perplexed side glance. “You want us to go into that restaurant thing and ask for directions, basically?”

“Well, you’re taking all the magic away from it, phrasing it with such Boeotian banality, but yes.”

“No way. You do it.”

“And why exactly is that?”

“You know your American history?”

“Obviously.”

 

She pointed at her face with an annoyed expression. “The Vietnam War, y’know? It ended like, ten years ago?”

“Oh. But that had nothing to do with you, you’re from Cambodia!”

“Technically, my family moved to France ten generations ago, and then to Andromeda a century or so after. But I doubt that kind of technical details will really matter to the angry mob.”

“Angry mob? You’re exaggerating.”

“This is America, Doctor.”

A pause. “… Fair point. I suppose we’ll need a cover story of some kind?”

 

“You served as an army doctor, and I’m your wife who used to be a nurse in your hospital. Simple, efficient, and useful – nobody wants to insult a veteran.”

“My wife?”

“Needs must when the devil drives. And if that implies I must straighten my act …”

“Also, an army doctor? Projecting much?”

“Are you really just going to stand there nitpicking our fake identities?”

“Well, they could be better, that’s all I’m saying.”

“God, just get your ass over there and get me some results. And a milkshake. I’m dying for a milkshake.”

“You know, back in the day, it was I who ordered people to go fetch beverages.”

“Maybe, but times change, and so must you. Go and soar, Mr. Peacock.”

 

 

-

 

Channary was looking away. She could see the cars passing-by – buzzing, vibrating little bees. It was a true cacophony of chrome, but yet, she found a certain comfort in its regular patterns. Or maybe in the conviction that, within each and every one of these colored dots zipping along the highway, there were people. Couples in love, fighting each other, laughing together. Happy postcard families, all smiles & sugar.

She clenched her fists. She had to be strong. She had a duty. To her world. To life. But the war kept haunting her. Kept coming back to her, washing over and sticking to her very soul like ectoplasmic tar. Pieces and fragments – screams, blood falling into the mud, tears running on a soldier’s cheek as the doctors hacked away, salvation through suffering, and all those screams … Her patients used to be so quiet. Immobile under white lights, their flesh subtly incised with lasers. It was like solving puzzles. Follow the dots, stay on the line, weave and cut and spin like a scalpelled Greek Fate. But things were so complicated now. So much messier. Cruder. Crueler. She felt so averse to all this. So alienated. Was it privilege speaking? A spoiled brat yelling “woe is me” while the world was tearing itself apart? Maybe. But, as her eyes drifted, again and again, car after truck after bus after car, she couldn’t help but try to will all this away, all this thick reality that weighted upon her and suffocated her like a cloak of lead.

… The Doctor was at her side. Damn. She hadn’t heard him arrive.

 

 

“Are you alright?”

“Not really. But I’ll cope.” A deep sigh.

“Would a milkshake help?”

“Now that, that is music to my ears. Urgh. Not exactly prime quality, these things, huh?” she grimaced.

“Not really, no. Anyway, I managed to get some information. I’m afraid there wasn’t much highbrow interrogation and subtle manipulation involved, I just took a peak at the newspapers. Now, most of them are taken by the oncoming inauguration of the President …”

“Which one is it? Woods?”

“Half a century too early for that, I’m afraid. No, Reagan.”

“Urgh.”

“Yes, that about covers it. Look at all this.” He made a grand gesture towards the car park and the landscape beyond it. “These people want to believe in something that’ll make the humdrum comings and goings of their life mean something. And here comes a _homo novus_ promising a new Golden Age, in which their life will find a new, transcendent meaning. Of course, there was precious little actual meaning involved. It was all snake oil. A great advertisement campaign that hit its target goals.”

“It’s a bit sad, really. Don’t everyone deserve a Golden Age?”

“I’m not a Doctor of philosophy. Well. I am, but that’s hardly the point. Anyway – the papers. Cutting through all the politics, here’s the relevant bit. A woman named Amanda Jones is going on trial for killing her husband. That’s awful, but what really caught my eye are the circumstances of the crime. Read.”

Channary followed course. And regretted it.

 

 

“Shit.”

“Quite,” the Doctor agreed.

“That’s the Noth. It has to be. Stuff that … baroque, it doesn’t happen in isolation. Your ordinary housewife doesn’t suddenly snap, knife her husband and serve him to eat to the kids. Like, there’s always been serial killers, but that’s the only thing she’s ever done. It reeks of …”

“Mind control?”

“Or something close to it. That’s one of my specialties, the impact of that kind of technology on the brain and nervous system, one of the reasons why they nabbed me for the war effort. The Noth don’t really use mind control, usually – they have the technology, acquired it from the select few traders that are allowed to enter their home galaxy, but they consider it … Impure? I don’t know, it’s difficult to explain their insane cult religion thing. Basically, they think it’s better to do things to people than to have them do it to themselves. But if they were in a tight spot, I can see them relying on it.”

“Why, though? Why would they need to kill a random man and send a woman in jail?”

“Fun, I suppose. Have a good chuckle when it hits the TV screens around the country. They probably don’t want to get involved directly – if someone ended up spotting them, well … They have technology, and they’re vicious in their own right, but how big can that crew be?”

“Fifty at the most, I’d assume.”

“Exactly, and that’s supposing they all survived the crash. This country has millions of citizens. They band together, they can crush any kind of alien raiding party. So if they want to get their kicks by hunting some poor humans, they have to bother with actual cover stories.”

“And they’re better at it than us, too.”

“Ha, ha, ha. Although, you’re not wrong. That article said they came from a poor neighborhood. Not exactly someone that’d be missed. Just pin the crime on a scapegoat and move on with it. Will boost up the statistics at the end of the month.”

“There’s a universal desire for clean and easy justice. Which is no justice at all, but it feels better.”

“And they’re good psychologists.”

The Doctor paused. “Of course, it’s not the only … Uncanny and spectacular death that happened recently. The television was on when I came, and they were talking about some politician self-immolating. Well, aspiring politician, running for some elections in a small town.”

“That’s big enough to end up on the news …”

“… But not quite big enough to create a nationwide panic, exactly. It’s exactly the right target for the Noth. I’ve popped back to the TARDIS to cross-reference things, and as it turns out, there has been quite a few of these. Eight or nine, never targeting anyone too famous, all quite grotesque.”

 

 

Deauclaire’s face twisted in disgust.

“You know what I think right now?”

“No – do tell.”

“I’m thinking that it’s good because it’s probably going to allow us to triangulate their position based on where the killings took place. That _it’s good_. Ha. War … War makes you think in funny ways, doesn’t it?”

“I wouldn’t know, but … –“

“I hope you never do.”

“I wouldn’t know, but it doesn’t change who you are. Sometimes … You are allowed to be practical and cold. It’s a tool – some situations require the soft touch of a paintbrush, others the steel of a scalpel. You’ll appreciate the metaphor better than most, I’m sure. In itself, the tool isn’t good or bad – it’s what you use it for that matters. And if you’re using it to stop more killings, well … I’ve done things I regret, Channary. But I try not having remorse about stopping what would otherwise never stop until it had burnt the galaxy away. It’s a question of priorities.”

“It’s just hard to remind yourself you are more than a scalpel, sometimes.

“Of course you are more than that. You’re brilliant!”

“Flattery will get you nowhere, _husband_.”

“Stop that.”

“Never. I assume you’ve had the same idea?”

 

 

The Doctor pulled a map from his pocket.

“Indeed I have. I could have taken a hologram or something, but good old paper, so much better for dramatic flair. These dots, in red –“, he said as he pointed towards an irregular star pattern of small ink drops, like little blood droplets that had crashed on the old, crumpled paper, bringing calamity with them, “are all the victims. Which would make the heart of the matter, so to speak …” He pointed out a spot with a grand gesture.

“Someplace in the butthole of Minnesota. Great. I warn you, if we end up going there and finding a body half stuck in a wood chipper, I’m out.”

The Time Lord shot her a quizzical look.

“What? The wife likes vintage movies.”

 

She sighed, and then stood, suddenly invigorated.

“So. How are we going to go there?”

“Well, it might have escaped you, but we have a TARDIS. It’s handy.”

“A time machine that leaks Artron like a stitch job from a bad surgeon leaks pus, yes. If the scanners from the Noth ship are still intact after the crash, which I’d say is, what, a fifty/fifty chance, they’ll know we’re coming. And if possible, I would like not to find myself staring at the edge of a laser-scythe anytime soon. I’ve tried once, it’s very unpleasant.”

“What happened to the person holding it?”

“My hand slipped and he got a scalpel in the eye. Oopsie.”

“Remind me never to get on your bad side.”

“Stay classy and don’t steal my sandwiches, and it will all work out great. But anyway. That doesn’t solve the problem.”

“Please, don’t suggest that we hitch a ride.”

“I suggest we hitch a ride. But I guess we can hop in the TARDIS to get closer first – half the distance, probably?”

“I guess so.”

“Try to sound a little bit more enthusiastic! Isn’t that what time travel is supposed to be about, mingling with people, getting the authentic experience and all that? I mean, I wouldn’t really know, I only did a few time cruises and you know how tightly controlled those are.”

“You can still mingle with the passengers from a first class seat, that’s my point. I haven’t stol- _procured_ a time machine to ride the bus or end up on the backseat of someone’s car on a bad road while they play some out-of-date records!”

 

As they started making their way towards the TARDIS, Deauclaire let out a childish laugh and elbowed the Doctor gently –

“You’re no fun, you know.”

“And you’re suddenly in a very good mood.”

“I guess I am. The calm before the storm.”

Silence fell again as they walked under the quiet skies, and entered the ship with an air of fatalistic resolve.

A few minutes later, a gust of wind carried the blue box away from this place. A few empty bags of brand-name fries, stained with mud, whirled around in the cold air.

 

 

-

 

Maria thought the first days would be the hardest. As it turned out, she was quite mistaken.

Her life now revolved around something she could not control or even understand. Karen’s parents were too far away, and too alienated by the country around them. She was the one who had to lead the search. She got up early, bags under the eyes – sleep was in short supply. Went to work, tried to keep a smiley face for the people that came in to borrow and return books, or the occasional supplier. Using every moment of free time to make calls, popping out to print posters, eating while on the phone. Of course, Karen had been driving her car, lent quite happily so that she could continue her usual business, when she had disappeared, so she had to walk to the village, and sometimes even to other towns, even further, through blizzard and rain. She couldn’t get what happened out of her mind.  All the moments she had spent with her, talking about literature, about Karen’s studies, her commitment to medicine, to helping people, to preserve life … And then the disappearance, this awful abstract thing. She was drowning in both facts and hypotheses – timetables, factoids about the roads or the weather or the chances of survival of missing persons, conspiracies, crazy fantasies her sleep-deprived mind made up when she was lying awake on her bed, cup of tea in hand, unread books lying about.

 

But that she could deal with. Well. Not really, no. But at least it made sense. She had heard stories, read stories, see history unfold around her – she had lived. It was tearing her apart – the idea of the only person who had showed her kindness and warmth, after the death of her parents, dead or worse. But it was so painful because, well, it happened to others before. It was an old story, repeated again and again, heartbreak and tears showing up every time right on cue.

So many other things, though, she could just not understand. And that drove her mad with rage. Life hadn’t given much to her, but the hardships, and even the discrimination, she could wrap her head around, and that kept her going. Knowing where it came from, and where it could be going.

But now, night brought things with it. Things beyond reason.

 

She first saw the creatures … Was it three, or four nights after Karen vanished? She honestly could not remember. But there she was, trying to get to sleep by walking the paths around her house, lifting her tired gaze at the stars – when she caught glimpse of something, at the edge of the woods.

It could have been a man; after all, she only saw a shape in the dark. It probably was, in all likelihood. And yet, she knew, she just _knew_ it was not. She could not catch a glimpse of its face, but she was sure there was something around it, on it – feathers? Fur? Antlers? The more she thought back on the incident, the crazier her hypotheses became. But that wasn’t the thing that chilled her to her core.

The silhouette seemed entirely naked, its skin, muscles showing even from a distance, catching the light of the moon – and it was almost crawling on the floor. No – on the prowl, crouched, walking on all fours, slowly, deliberately, in her general direction. The words came to her as a reflex, almost, inherited from watching nature documentaries on the library’s old television post – it was _hunting_.

 

She bolted back to her house, and locked the door behind her. It wasn’t much of a reassurance, though. The house was a small, fragile thing. Anyone setting their mind to it could enter it. And she had no way to defend herself – she hated guns, always had, which made her a notable exceptions in a town where everyone had a hunting rifle hanging over the fireplace. She waited, and waited, but nothing – no _thing_ – came.

Surely it had been the stress, and the pangs of loss and guilt, she thought. The mind plays tricks on everyone. She had to have imagined it.

But the next day, she could see the traces in the snow. She could sense the threat in the air. Her life had had its share of tension – many American lives did, like a quiet, permanent hum of suffering in the backstage – but that emotion, she did not know. The exact feeling the sheep gets when staring at the wolf’s jaw. Being a prey. Being meat.

It kept going. Marks on her door – claw marks, her instincts told her, while she was desperately trying to suppress them. Noises in the night, strange clamors that seemed just like the ordinary wolfsongs of winter but yet very clearly were not. She tried to just keep at her daily, stressful business, hoping that if she just tried hard enough, did enough for her friend, she could get her back, and then maybe, just maybe everything would make sense again.

She abandoned that idea. And then tried to seek help from her neighbors, dropping increasingly unsubtle hints of her distress, but no one seemed to pick up on those. Maybe it was because of Karen being gone. They didn’t like sadness in these parts. It was distasteful.

When that failed, she just bought a lot of canned goods to store in her house, that increasingly precarious heaven. No way to escape without her car – no way that wouldn’t have her walking through these dark woods she was now certain contained something worse than death. She could only wait – still hanging onto the phone for news about her friend, for a way out. Holding the axe usually reserved for firewood, taking a leave off her work. Never going out. Under any circumstances. A siege had begun.

And outside, at night, the Noth glanced at her door. So eager. So hungry.

 

 

-

 

Ben had seen a lot of people pass him by. He was a trucker, see, and in his line of work, that happens a lot. Bunch of anonymous faces at gas stations, with their usual fauna - young ladies with loads of make-up waiting in line in front of the bathroom, tired-looking businesspeople trying to enjoy cheap, flavorless coffee and brats begging for sandwiches and Pop Tarts –; glimpses of drivers’ faces as he was sliding on American asphalt like a red globule carrying merchandise, the oxygen of this great nation; and occasionally some strangers he was taking along for a drive, exchanging pleasant banter before they slumped in their seat, face against the window, falling into the sleepless, agitated slumber that seems to be an integral part of any long journey.

These two were quite the odd couple, though. They said they were husband and wife, although he didn’t know if he truly believed that – he was getting a whiff of former free-love hippy types, looking at them. Trying to keep the spirit and flame of the old days alive, and all that. He wasn’t really into that stuff, to be honest. Oh, sure, it was nice, but it was all so damn noisy. He liked watching – people-watching. Not so much being in the front row seat, where all the action is happening. From his little truck, he could see the rest of the world; like staring at an aquarium, and finding the multicolored fishes inside so strange, so colorful, and so agitated with their constant moving about and agitating and dancing. Wouldn’t it just be better to, like, follow the currents?

Anyway. Wasn’t his business asking about them – they were nice and polite, so he could give them a ride alright. The lady fell asleep really quickly – and a hell of a sleep, too. She really must have seen some crazy shit before if she found the inside of some random truck so comfortable. The man, with his big blonde afro (kinda looked like he had been aiming for Art Garfunkel and missed), stayed up, though, staring as the afternoon dissolved into an inky black night. January darkness in that part of the country, that’s a special kind of dark – he wasn’t especially religious, but he imagined that if Hell was real, that was the mood lighting there down below. Gave you the feeling that you could reach and touch it, grab a fistful of it. Not that you should. You could only see a little strip, a few meters only, of road in front of you, in the little cone of clarity cast by the headlights.  The guy seemed utterly unfazed by it, though. Just kept on staring, as if he were seeing things in the dark.

 

The next day came. Mumbling in his bushy beard, Ben asked the man – Smith, that was the name apparently, although he was once again pretty sure that it was a rather bad pseudonym conjured up on the fly, if he wanted him to wake up the lady.

“Why is that?”

“Well”, he answered with some surprise, “you know what day it is, right?”

“After a certain age, they do blend in a bit,” answered the stranger, still half-taken by his contemplative endeavors.

 

 Now, that was pushing it - “C’mon, you’re not that much older than me!”

“You’d be surprised.”

“Well, anyhow – the new President gets sworn in today. I thought I’d switch on the radio, so that we can hear what he has to say about the country and all that.”

“Oh.” That was not a neutral tone.

“You’re not a fan of the new guy, uh?”

“I can’t say that I am, no. Generally speaking, I don’t trust people that claim they have been chosen by God. Most of the time, they turn out to be crooks, despots, or manipulated by some kind of alien slug. Or the alien slug itself. Wearing a really bad rubber mask.”

That got a smile out of Ben. “You’ve watched too much ol’ sci-fi flicks, man. Anyway. Not really into politics myself, but I don’t hate him. I like what he’s saying. See, sometimes, this country feels a little bit like the night we went through. And if we can get someone on a hill with a torch, telling us to go and join him … Well. It feels good.”

Smith smiled. “Ah, humanity. It never changes. Part of the charm, I suppose. Oh well, don’t worry on my behalf, switch it on.” The crackling of static resonated in the vehicle while the driver was fiddling with the switches. “You know, I’m afraid I’ve been a bit rude, staring at nothing during the whole journey. I’m sorry, I have had much to ponder.”

“The stoic silent type, eh? It’s alright. Honestly, better that than that one time I picked a few girls from Texas – you wouldn’t imagine how long they could yap about stuff no one in their right mind would care about. Kinda racist, too, I guess.”

“You must see a lot of interesting people, in that line of work. I’d wager you have a few interesting stories lodged in your frontal lobe.”

 

Classic conversation starter, that. But he wasn’t feeling it, so he just turned the question on its head – “So do you, Mister Smith. I mean, someone with a fake name like that, gotta have some tales to tell.”

“Touché. Do you want to hear one?”

“Why the hell not?”

And so, the Doctor told Ben a story, as the voice of the fortieth President of the United States started to echo through the morning.

_… We must act today in order to preserve tomorrow. And let there be no misunderstanding—we are going to begin to act, beginning today …_

“Have you ever heard of the Rakshasas?”

“Nah. Not really. Is that one of these Dungeons & Dragons things the kids are all about these days? Never had kids myself. Never really wanted to settle down. Sorry. Keep going.”

The Doctor offered him a sympathetic, if a little annoyed, smile, and pursued – “It’s an Indian legend. About demons spawned from the breath of their creator god, that, as soon as they were born, starting gnawing away at its flesh.”

_… We, as Americans, have the capacity now, as we have had in the past, to do whatever needs to be done to preserve this last and greatest bastion of freedom …_

“And from there, they started to plague mankind. An evil force that could assume many faces – and who was led, above all things, by the desire to eat.”

_… We hear much of special interest groups. Our concern must be for a special interest group that has been too long neglected …_

“To devour humans.”

_… They are, in short, "We the people," this breed called Americans …_

“Now, the interesting thing is, it’s not the only such legend. The fairytales of Europe have the same kind of figures. Ogres, the sort you find in Puss in Boots. Clever. Cunning. Hungry.”

_… If we look to the answer as to why, for so many years, we achieved so much, prospered as no other people on Earth, it was because here, in this land, we unleashed the energy and individual genius of man to a greater extent than has ever been done before …_

“Now, a hypothesis. What if the Rakshasas are real? What if, at some point in the unfathomable revolutions of the wheels of evolution, something strange happened and produced a race whose creed, whose raison d’être, was to consume? They would not be evil, per se. In fact, they would just really love life. Worship it, even. But their version of life is one where only hunters and preys exist. Where the entire universe revolves around the moment where you can … use people. Make them into things to be toyed with or devoured.”

_… Those who say that we are in a time when there are no heroes just don't know where to look …_

“And what if these creatures spread out across the stars, all the way to this place? Moved by the desire to propagate their religion. And by a neverending, covetous desire.”

_… As for the enemies of freedom, those who are potential adversaries, they will be reminded that peace is the highest aspiration of the American people …_

There was a long, cold silence. And then Ben turned his face to the Doctor.

“That’s … Just a story, right?”

“It depends. Do you believe it is?”

_… And, after all, why shouldn't we believe that? We are Americans. God bless you, and thank you._

 

 

-

 

Lawrence’s Cross, Minnesota.

That’s what the rusty and decrepit sign said. Hence, it had to be the name of the town. Which was, quite aptly, a bit decrepit itself. Although, not without its charms – as if the mounds of snow that covered every inch of the place, from its little houses to its white wooden church, had preserved a local brand of quirkiness through the ages. It was a mammoth taken by the great glaciers: cute, odd, and quite dead.

 

Channary and the Doctor had been walking for a few minutes now – left and right of them, the snow was white and pure, but, on the path they were taking, it had half-melted into a brown magma that reminded the surgeon of the mud she’d seen on the frontlines. An impressive silence surrounded them as they headed into the village. But its threatening nature soon faded into an indistinct sense of congeniality as they kept soldering on through the snow. Their destination was an establishment an establishment that was, they had been told by a travel guide they’d picked up at yet another gas station, a bar/hotel/restaurant hybrid filling the bellies of the locals with good cheer and at least five varieties of homebrewed ale. That made Channary quite giddy, despite the danger she knew was looming. In front of its wooden façade stood a cozy, two-story high house, in front of which a one-eyed man – considering his greying beard, he had probably gotten that wound in an older vintage of war, maybe even on the Normandy beaches – was smoking a pipe and petting a labrador, reading the papers with considerable attention. He stared at the strange pairing a bit, but, as to apologize for the unwanted attention, he soon smiled a big smile, made a vague salute, and went back to the no doubt fascinating local news.  As they entered the building, Channary took a moment to survey her surroundings. The snow wasn’t here in full force today, but the outskirts of the hamlet were nevertheless lost in a hazy mist, ghosts of houses gathering together in the distance, trying to keep warm; however, quite clear, a little bit further along the main street, the church presented its profile, and behind it, you could distinguish a tall, square building, which, she would learn later over glass, was the town hall.

 

They settled around a table and ordered something to drink, noticing, above the counter, a bunch of posters and notes stuck to a pinboard. Most of them were the nothing but the multicolored trifles you might expect from the daily life of a small town – local events, an obituary or two, adverts in big bold flashy letters; but their attention was caught by something quite different. It was a black and white picture of a young woman, maybe thirty years old, large dark locks of tangled hair cascading around an angular but joyful face. Her eyes, though, were full of shadows – a brand of shadows unique to these missing persons placards, each movement of the photocopier or fax machine adding to the page, it seemed, an additional layer of distress, sadness and loss. Below, a few lines: “KAREN MANTZOUKAS – REPORTED MISSING 5/01/1981 – LAST SEEN NEAR LAWRENCE’S CROSS, MIN. – CALL 612-348-2345 TO REPORT ANY INFORMATIONS”.

 

They didn’t have much time to ponder the implications of their discovery, though, as a short, muscular woman, her hair a badger-like mix of black and white, brought them a pair of beers. She introduced herself, with a booming voice, as Mrs. Marsh – “Can I get you anything to eat with that, people? Looks like you've had a hell of a journey to come here, you’re soaking wet. Eggs and sausage?”

“And a side of toast, burgers and fries, what kind of pies?” went the Doctor, almost automatically.

“Is that your order, or …” answered Marsh, raising a quizzical eyebrow.

“Hm? Oh, no. Tom Waits. Played blackjack with him once. He cheats. It’s one of the songs he’ll write. Has written. Is writing. No, pretty sure he has written it already. Hum? Never mind. As you said, well, a long trip, yes. Eggs and sausages! Sounds excellent. Doesn’t it, Chan? It does. She agrees. Let’s go.”

 

As she headed back towards the counter, Channary kicked the Doctor in the shins, below the table, mouthing him an impatient “what about the girl?!” Maybe she had added a few colorful epithets under her breath, too. She knew a lot of those. Military hospitals and gay bars, great places to learn curse words.

“Oh, yes, Mrs.?” the Doctor added, not without shooting one of his favourite varieties of dark glare (one he had nicked from Evelyn, he recalled) at his companion.

“Hum?”

“Who’s that lady? The one from the missing person’s poster.”

“Oh, yeah, Karen. Poor girl. Her parents, all the way back in Minneapolis, are worried sick. They phoned the mayor to ask him to put up the posters … Mustn’t have been easy for them, see, they’re Greek, not sure they’re too great at speaking English … But yeah, I don’t know her that well, but she was always real nice when she passed through town. She was … Nah, she still is, no reason to be a downer, eh? She’s a nurse, see. Well, studying to be one, at least, and when she’s on leave, instead of going and having fun like most young ones, she patrols the countryside to see if she can help out some of the most backwater towns in the region. I mean, I love the place, don’t get me wrong, wouldn’t have settled here otherwise, but it’s true it’s a bit of a drive to the nearest hospital.  So it helps a lot, even if I, personally, never really had the need. Why’re you asking? Are you with the police?”

“No, no, not at all. Just concerned citizens”, he replied with his most disarming smile, while Channary tried to ascertain whether living in a police box technically made him an agent of the law.

“Well, if you ever need to chat about it with someone, I’d recommend Maria. Nice girl, she is. Although, got a bit weird, recently. She has, like, barricaded herself in that house of hers. I mean, can’t blame her, must be quite a shock, the two of them were super tight. Best friends forever. If you ask me, though, I think it’s just where she lives. The other end of the town. Almost in the woods. Quiet place, there. Too quiet – must do bad things to the little brain cells.”

“Well, to be honest”, Deauclaire chimed in, with a fabricated valley girl accent that earned her a side glance from her blonde aide, “the whole town is really, just, like, so quiet. I mean, I know, perks of the region, but even then, I’m saying like, where are all the people?”

“It’s still January! A lot of them went to meet relatives for Christmas and the like, and just stayed there for a bit. Happens every year. But they do come back eventually! I like to pretend it’s my beer. You like it, by the way?”

“Oh yes. Very good”, went the Doctor, who had not a clue about what made such a beverage “good” or “bad”.

“Damn straight it is. But yeah, usually quiet this season. We don’t get many tourists, really, what’s bringing you?”

“Oh, it’s the car,” went Channary.

“The car?”

“Yeah, it, uh, broke down. We left it at the nearest town, it’s being repaired, but it’s gonna take a couple of days, and we told ourselves, me and my teddy bear” – here, she wondered for a long time what kind of affectionate gesture would be appropriate in the circumstance, and settled for a hand in the Doctor’s hair, who reacted pretty much like a cat suddenly exposed to cold water, just short of hissing – “well, since we’re here, why not have a little walk around, you know? There’s a lot of nice little towns like yours."

“Oh, bless you then. Hope it’s all going to get fixed soon. But yeah, beyond the fact there’s generally not many people hanging ‘round at this time of year, there’s also a bunch of guys who went to see the president getting sworn in. I caught it on the telly, damn nice show, it was. I mean, I didn’t vote for the guy, but you have to admit, man’s got charisma. And he’s caring about little towns like ours, too, that’s nice.”

“Oh, really? He’s got plans for this place?”

“Well, not as such, nah, but there’s like, some suit coming here in a couple of days? A representative, they said, coming here to see what life is in the rural, authentic America, and gather some of our ideas for improving things. Getting the power back to the base! I mean, not sure about everything the guy says, but that does sound nice. They didn’t tell you all that at the garage? Oh, crap, I’ve been silly, talking to you all that time. Gotta dash, wouldn’t want to neglect the clients, eh? Mark!” she shouted at a lanky teenager toasting bread in the kitchen, “get the lovebirds here some eggs and sausage, and hurry! See you around, you two.”

 

Channary, trying very hard not to answer with some innuendo about sausages, instead refocused on the more pressing matter at hand, waiting for the breakfast to be delivered and the waiter to be out of earshot before whispering to the Doctor – “Well, this does sound like the right place, doesn’t it? Mysterious disappearances, a woman locked away and, lo and behold, a political figure about to visit. Imagine what they could learn from him. And let’s not even mention what would happen if they got around replacing or brainwashing him. Direct access to the president, at the heart of whatever this political crisis is …”

“… The Cold War,” the Doctor specified.

“I mean, at some point you just stop counting them, you know? Anyway. They got a President and a fuckton of nukes. I mean, they wouldn’t destroy the world, that’s not their type, but they could hold it to ransom. Give us a thousand younglings to feast on per year, like if we were the goddamn Minotaur, or we’ll all blow you to cinders by starting a nuclear war with the Indonesians.”

“Russians.”

“Whatever.”

“You’re right, it’s concerning. Good analogy, too – although I should point out there never was a Minotaur as such. It was actually King Minos’ pet Nimon. I gave Daedalus a hand with the plans, what can I say. But there’s also something else worrying me.”

“Pray tell. Not like it could get any creepier.”

“If they want to hunt, it’s an ideal place. Everyone knows, apparently, that there are people leaving town for Christmas, or watch whoever they elected get applauded publically and loudly. No one is going to ask questions if some people end up away a bit longer than anticipated. All they have to do is wait to catch someone on the road, when they leave or come back, and let people rationalize. Of course, it won’t last forever, but when they realize something is very wrong with their town, it will be too late …”

“No, I was wrong. It can definitely get creepier. I’m almost regretting the frontlines.”

“Are you, though?”

A shadow passed over Deauclaire’s face. “No. Not really. If I’m completely honest.” A sigh. “Well, we’ve got work to do. Let’s head to this Maria’s, shall we? The sooner we finish this, the sooner I’ll be able to head back.”

 

The rest of the lunch went by in a tense silence, as they wolfed down the (quite tasty, in all honesty) meal, and walked into the snow. It was starting to fall in a much thicker formation now, like a heavy curtain separating the little, quiet town from the rest of the world – an island in a sea of dark trees.

The man in the garden was putting his chair, dog, pipe and newspaper safely away inside now. His back was turned, but, as Channary turned around for one last glance, she noticed something strange.

He looked tired. His eyes were heavy with fatigue.

 _Both_ his eyes.

 

 

-

 

Maria Parker’s house was a small one, off the beaten path – staring directly into the forest. Wooden walls, a couple of rooms only. It could have been called a cabin, but cabins are for rich people looking to spend some winter vacations with their two kids and their puppy, eating s’mores around a fire, having vicious domestic arguments because Mr. Whatever forgot the radio, and maybe getting attacked by a bear. This was very much the abode of someone that had no means to offer any sort of larger accommodation. There probably was a connection between that state of affairs and the fact Channary and the Doctor were greeted, after knocking at the door, by a dark-skinned face, the only one they had seen since they entered the village.

 

Also, an axe.

 

“Oh. Uh. Well, that’s unexpected. Ordinarily, people wait until they’ve heard me talking for a bit before pulling out the sharp objects”, the Doctor babbled while taking a few careful steps back.

“What do you want?” Her voice carried such a weight of exhaustion you could almost feel each raw and exposed nerve in her body.

Deauclaire channeled her bedside manners - “We want to talk to you about Karen. Karen Mantzoukas. She’s a friend of yours, and we think we can help.”

Maria paused. That answer had obviously surprised her. She ended up nodding, and letting them enter. She did not let go of her axe, though.

 

They passed the doorframe to find a small, clean living-room/bedroom/kitchen covered in books: modern paperbacks lounging peacefully near piles of these ancient hardcovers from last century, their uniformly-colored covers creating a kaleidoscope of red, blue and green dots, under the shaky glow of the single lightbulb hanging over the proceedings. The industrial logos of food cans strewn about the place, all big bold letters and funny mascots,  completed the tableau.

“That’s a lot of books”, pointed out Channary.

“What acute observational powers you have, my dear,” the Doctor stated with a smirk, before turning back to Maria. “You are the town’s librarian, are you not? Hence the books.”

 

“That’s right. You’re still not telling me how you can help, though. And I have an axe. Just in case you didn’t notice.”

“A woman after my own heart. Guns are awful things, but an axe, now that is romantic.” The Doctor sat down on her bed, despite the dark glares she sent him. “Before we get to the juicy details, though, I want to know how desperate you are.”

“Pardon?!”

“You’ve heard me right. Thing is, I think I have a fairly decent idea of what happened to your friend. I also know, from painful lived experience, that if I develop said ideas, you might think I’m insane, and it would cause all sorts of complications, especially if you start organizing a witch hunt and throwing me in jail, and then I’d have to escape at the last minute when the bad guys will start rampaging through the town and we’ll have a climactic confrontation on top of a local landmark … Thing is, all that is all really quite tiring and I’m not getting any younger, so I want to know if you’re desperate enough as to suspend your disbelief and accept the truth for what it is – raw, and making no sense whatsoever.”

 

The woman understood, that much was clear. “At this point, I’m ready to accept anything. You’re the first who seem to actually worry about her. About me. About all that happened and is still happening here. Why, though? Why are you here?”

Channary felt sorry for that woman. She knew what it was to be separated from the most important person in your life. So, she intervened – “We’re here to help. If you let us. And I’d like you to let us, because I think you need all the help you can get.”

She laid a hand on Maria’s shoulder. The two women stared at each other, a strange camaraderie carried by this gesture.

“Tell me. Tell me everything”, she said. “And I’ll tell you everything I’ve seen.”

 

 

-

 

ON THE NOTH – Tactical Briefing from Gallifrey Military Central, extracted from TARDIS Data Banks – Author: Sub-Strategist Ollistra

 

What are the Noth?

 

It is very difficult to exactly pinpoint their origin – they have been very careful to delete from history all records that could allow for time-focused attacks, by us or other active Powers. Kor Aboros, their home planet, is surrounded by an extremely powerful time-shield powered by the natural volcanic activity of the planet.

 

What we do know is that they’re a bio-memetic hybrid: living receptacles for feelings and experiences that sustain them. In their natural states, they have been reported and depicted to be faceless – whether that is an actual biological fact or the logical patterns of our brains reasserting themselves in front of a pseudo-perception filter caused by memetic static (ie: trying to make sense of what exists on a fundamentally different Subsection of the Spiral) is yet undetermined. From this basic template, they evolve and experience, adopting forms that represent their interior being through symbolism or a wicked, unsavory sense of humor. Most of the time, they will pluck the head or the most distinctive feature of a species, either humanoid or part of the fauna or flora of the universe, and graft it on a humanoid body that allows them to interact with the most environments. This could make for a fantastic military advantage on the battlefield, allowing them to adapt at a very fast rate to various scenarii, but it’s not the case: they are very reluctant to change what they consider a key part of their identity. Aesthetic concerns are equated to tactical ones – their ultimate goal, really, is to turn the whole of reality into a work of art, a tableau vivant following their own moral code.

 

Said moral code – which could rather be defined as a holy text protected and enforced by a caste of politicians-priests – is based around the supremacy of Life. Life is the supreme force in the universe, and you must feel Life as intensely as possible to truly grasp it and gain in wisdom and virtue. To feel Life, you must engage in as many extreme aesthetic, violent, sexual and physical experiences as possible. The killing or torture of sentient species during this process is not considered a violation of the code: they, after all, also get to push their boundaries, making them stronger and worthier. They consider it a beneficial symbiosis between predator and prey – which explains why they don’t launch mass assaults or wage war: they are not conquerors, just shepherds tending to their herd, and occasionally selecting a number of prey to be consumed; a process not unlike the well-known, galaxy-spanning phenomena of hunters dedicating the corpses of animals they killed to some deity. They therefore are a nuisance, but do not constitute a priority for the Time Lords – unless their time-travel capabilities improve drastically over the next few millennia of linear time.

 

[THE FOLLOWING SECTIONS HAVE BEEN REDACTED / PLEASE ENTER SECURITY CLEARANCE:

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ ]

 

 

-

 

“Pagan, animal-headed gods that were actually alien invaders all along? That’s not the most difficult thing to believe. I mean, just look at Hollywood”, Maria said. Her expression was strange. Half-panicked, half-reassured.

“Correlation isn’t causation. I’m sure some Noth arrived on Earth, saw these representations, and disguised themselves to follow them, thus propagating the myths further, but they aren’t part of their origins.”

A long, awkward silence fell in the room, only troubled by the whizz of the teapot on the gas cooker.

 

“Aliens”, finally stated Maria.

“Yup”, answered Channary, her fingers nervously dancing on the edge of one of their host’s many bookshelves.

Maria stared ahead of her. The kind of lost glares you often saw in America, near the highways and down in the projects, in the small country inns and the empty beaches in December.

“You know what the weirdest thing is?” The words were coming now, pouring out, like a tireless mountain torrent after a flash thaw. “I … I believe it. I mean, I’d be stupid not to, after all that I’ve seen. But even before that, I always thought it was, like, in the realm of the possible. I mean look at the television, all these preachers talking about upheaval and catastrophe and heroes in tuxedos coming to rise to our defense and lead America’s charge into the mouth of hell as the End Times come … Like they want it to happen, want the world to end in a blaze of patriotic glory … I can believe that the skies opened and spit little green men and women instead of fire and fury and the trumpets of Doom. What I can’t wrap my head around is why they would come here. Pick her – Karen. Just my friend Karen with her coffee and her jokes and the little plushy dog she kept on the backseat of her car. I was at peace with the idea that … she might have died. The world is dangerous. I know that, better than most people. I could believe that some accident happen, or that is was just … like, a random act of cruelty. But the idea that it could have been planned, that some … force would have targeted her, snatched her away? That makes me afraid.”

 

The Doctor intervened swiftly, placing his hand onto hers, and looking straight into her eyes, for a long while. Channary stood there and watch – was he just really good at making people trust him, or was it some kind of hypnosis? I mean, if he could do that, it could explain all the companions. It was kind of like watching an incredibly evolved organism that had, through countless generations, perfected its abilities in one specific area – the Doctor’s speech and voice and eyes were the lantern of a deep sea fish, a bait in the waters of the universe. Well. In any case, it was effective – Maria soon calmed down, as the Doctor started to whisper to her that he was telling the complete truth (well, they had omitted the time travel aspect from their narrative – too messy, too confusing, so maybe he technically was doing more persuasive pyrotechnics here) and that she could trust him.

 

Then the phone rang.

The Doctor frowned. He was not expecting this – it was very upsetting when these quieter moments he could share with the many passers-by in his life of constant adventure were interrupted by some villainous plot. Or the impolite and shrill squawk of some plastic box.

“I’ll get that, shall I?” Channary stated, moving towards the table on which it was lying. “If that’s okay with you, Maria …?”

“Yeah. Okay. Sure.” She was too sleep-deprived to properly split the difference between “okay” and “not okay”, really.

As she listened, her face turned sour. She threw a few half-hearted thanks to her interlocutor, and then put the handset down. Her eyes were cold and empty, now, filled not with dread, but with sad, tranquil resignation.

“It was Mrs. Marsh. Apparently, they have found Karen.”

 

 

 

-

 

“It’s already enough of a tragedy without you adding more bodies to the pile, you know!”

Maria’s frantic driving was, apparently, not quite to the Time Lord’s taste.

“I mean, Doctor, you would do the same in her – whoaaaaaaaaa, watch out for that tree! – in her place. And I’ve heard what your companions say about your driving skills!”

“Touché.”

“Is this how you manage it, Doctor?”

“Manage what?”

 

“To not crack. In that kind of situations. The funny banter, the little jokes, being more preoccupied by your cups of tea and coat lining than by the possibility of everything just … ceasing.”

The Doctor send her an inquisitive look, interrupted by an exasperated sigh as Maria, her eyes fixed on the snowy road with uncanny determination, ran over yet another pothole.

“You really are interested in what makes me … tick, is that the saying?”

Channary looked almost guilty. “Kinda. I … I want to learn. For when I get back.”

“Do you want to get back?”

Now she definitely looked guilty. And shocked that he asked her the question. “I’m many things, but I’m not a coward, Doctor. I know death. I know what it looks like, I know what it feels like. I’ve stared at it several times on operating tables. I won’t desert.”

“I could just … Have you pop back after the war. As a favor. One soldier won’t make much of a difference.”

“But one Doctor always will. We both know that. I have a duty. Towards the soldiers I served with. Towards my –“; she remembered when she was standing, and adjusted her language accordingly: “- partner, and my children. Towards Life, at the end of the day. It’s the oath I’ve took. I have a duty of care, Doctor.”

He smiled. “And that’s why I respect you.”

“Eh, you too!” Maria interrupted. “We’re here.”

 

 

They got off the car at a point where the road – a bit of an ambitious word, really, for what was essentially a small path the trekkers walked in summer – disappeared into an open clearing. They were well into the afternoon, and the winter sun was already starting to fade beyond the trees, casting a blood-colored gleam onto the snow.

No one in sight.

“The police aren’t here.” Maria noticed. “And neither is she. What the hell …”

 

“Doctor,” Channary said slowly. “This is not good.”

“No. It really isn’t. But oh well, we are not going to let the threatening shadow of mortal danger intimidate us, are we? Let’s get down to business, to defeat the Noth. And get at the proverbial bottom of this tenebrous and tangled conspiracy. Maria? Are there any shelters nearby? A place Karen and her rescuers could have taken refuge in?”

Maria nodded – “Yeah. Couple of cabins, at a few hundred meters straight ahead. Belong to some rich folks – they’re from Oklahoma, I think. Haven’t been there in almost a decade, so it has kind of became a spot for the young people. For smoking pot and all that kind of thing we all think are so clever when we’re teenagers in the middle of The Phase.”

“I never had a phase”, grumbled Channary in a rather awkward attempt to keep her spirits up as the sun grew increasingly dimmer.

“I did!” The Doctor chimed in, beaming. “It lasted for a couple hundred years. These were dark times. Thankfully, I’ve forgotten a lot of it. There are these most peculiar gaps in my memory, that … -“

Maria shot them a rather unkind look - “Stop chatting and move. I don’t know what these things are, not really, and a part of me are still not sure they exist, but I don’t intend on making their job easier.” A pause. “I think I see some lights.”

The Doctor and Channary exchanged a long, silent look. The Time Lord spoke first – “Shall we?” he said, pointing at the somber wall of hard, grim-looking trees.

 

 

-

 

The room was bare and dirty. There had been a lock, but it was forced ages ago. The simple furniture had now either been removed or was just lying around, scratched, broken and covered by hideous spots of various origins. The lightbulb had been smashed a long time ago, too, perhaps in a fight between some youngsters drunk on cheap beer or similarly inglorious circumstances – the light that emanated from the one window came from a solitary candle, flickering as cold gusts of wind entered through the open door. With each wave of cold air, the rocking chair near it moved in slow, hypnotic fashion.

 

A woman was sitting there. It was not Karen Mantzoukas. She was older. Thin lips, grey hair. Her eyes stared into nothingness, as she mumbled something – a prayer, maybe, some kind of incantation to ward off the encroaching darkness that was settling in the woods. 

The Doctor, Channary and Maria were staring at her, circumspectly. Maria was the first one to approach her, asking whether she was the one who called about Karen.

“Karen?’ the old woman whimpered. “I know no Karen. There’s no Karen here. Never been. Nothing happens here. Peaceful. Quiet. Always has been. We don’t see it. We won’t see it. The peace and quiet. More important. Too important. I don’t know.”

“You’re not making sense! Who are you?”

“No one! No one. Shush. Hear the quiet. Feel it. Inside of you.”

The Doctor stepped forwards. “Who … were you? Before?”

 

A spark of life darted through her big, sad, empty eyes. “I … I worked in a church. Helping … Those others wouldn’t help. It was good work. Wasn’t peaceful though. And then they came. They sought me out. They showed me … They showed me … Everything … And they told me … Told me to call you. Told me that the woman Karen would be part of the great purpose. As would you. As would we all. So peaceful here. So quiet.”

“It’s a trap.” Channary stated. Her tone was calm, but her eyes were everything but.

“Why did you obey?” Maria shook the woman. “Why did you do this? Where is Karen, tell me - where is Karen?!”

“There is no I. I is gone. Only flesh remains. Flesh under the snow, flesh under the calm calm calm quiet trees.” Her voice was raspy, not more than a whisper, all fire and passion extinguished except for the tiniest spark of almost religious zeal, sometimes abruptly flaring up at the end of a sentence. “The woman will go too. Go through the fire and the jaws and the way of thorns.”

“Doctor …” Channary started.

“She has lost it. Completely lost it.” Maria was holding her head in both her hands now. “What is happening?! Nothing here makes sense. I … I can’t do that. I can’t keep this on!”

“It can certainly feel like that,” the Doctor reassured her. “But we can deal with it. We can help this woman, and we can help your friend. Let’s just quickly bring her back to the car and …”

“Doctor!”

Channary had almost screamed, this time. Pointing at the window.

“They’re here,” she whispered.

 

 

-

 

The Doctor was standing ahead of the group, the two women supporting the strange doomsayer they had found in the cabin. He’d have suggested one of the old “when I say run, run!” routines, but it was a bit late for that.

The Noth were cutting their escape route. It was dark, now, and the last rays of the setting sun hit their hungry, green eyes and the edge of the long, vicious-looking silver scythes they were handling with both hands. One was of an average human build, an athletic body showing through ceremonial robes of dark clothes – but their head was the one of a goat, long horns twisting upwards, some strange symbols engraved upon them, next to rich golden ornaments that cascaded almost down to their white mane. The other was a tall, pot-bellied giant that had chosen the threatening features of a wild boar, saliva flowing from an angry snarl and tusks eager to tear pointing at the ragtag group in front of them.

Instead of risking their lives by ordering a prompt retreat – the Doctor had seen what a laser-scythe could do, and it was not pretty –, he instead lifted his hand and offered his most charming smile to the aliens. Who looked extremely confused, as much as it was possible to interpret the face of a goat and a boar.

 

“Alright! Fine! You got us. Bravo you. Clever bunch, you are.”

“If that is intended as sarcasm, you’d better remember you still fell into our little snare”, the goat said. Their voice was female-sounding, and quite disturbingly seductive, in a rather debauched way, slurring around her consonants like a drunk valley girl.

“As my coreligionist states,” the boar chimed in, with a voice that was also female, but much more elegant and sophisticated, giving a feeling of distinction that had no place next to the brutish look of the alien killer, “you are at our mercy. We have no quarrel with you, though, Doctor. The Time Lords and the Noth Imperium always have been … Well, friends would be overreaching,” they said while caressing the blade of their scythe, “but we have a mutual tolerance going on. Which I think we can extend to you, in this case. And even to your friends here – even if the time-travelling one is among those that are fighting our armies. Leave us. Leave us to prey and pray, and we’ll be on our way soon enough. You can even take that husk with you. We had our fun with her.”

Maria was terrified and furious in equal measures, but her indignation finally prevailed, and she yelled at them – “You murderers!”

“Oh, the human oversimplifications. How many people already die in this country, per diem?” The goat scoffed. “Shot and trampled in malls and clubbed by the police? What difference will a few more make – at least, when we do things, we make sure they learn, we make sure they get to see the Glorious Truth of Life. Isn’t that better that spending an entire life in mediocrity? Sheep need the butcher’s knife for their existence to make sense, it is fact. It is gospel.”

The Doctor stepped forwards, his hands still raised, his face still carrying a half-peaceful, half-threatening smile.

“All the difference, that’s the answer. They will make all the difference, these few lives you want to take. Well, I say a few … But we both know, deep down, that it’s not quite true.”

The Noth were visibly troubled, looking at each other for a couple seconds before shifting back into their menacing posture.

 

“You know”, the Doctor continued, now pacing left and right in the snow, almost dancing, “Maria asked a really good question earlier. Why her friend? Why Karen, of all people? Because these people you’ve killed, they weren’t just any people, no. They were … Important. Oh, not in that way you immediately notice – the web of time wouldn’t unravel if they suddenly went missing. But they were doing things. Seeding ideas, spreading words. There’s Karen, for starters. A medical women giving away her skills for free, well, that’s a little bit questionable for some people. And probably taught some women certain things – about sex, about their rights … But she’s hardly the only one. Amanda Jones, for instance, the one you forced to feed on her husband. I looked her up, back in the TARDIS. Her husband was black, here’s an interesting fact for you. She was living in a black neighborhood. Teaching kids about politics, helping the Panthers and other groups when she could – sometimes, you need a respectable face without too much melanin to get into certain places, go talk to certain people. Or that man, Terrence Bates. Also black. He was running for mayor of a small town – oh, nothing major would have changed if he had won, but maybe, one day, a kid from the neighborhood would get inspired by him, see a role model, and shake up the world in ways nobody can quite understand. Also interesting – you could have just killed them, but no. You hypnotized them – not quite your usual modus operandi, the good doctor Deauclaire and I immediately noticed that.

"You pushed them to commit these crimes – because it wasn’t just about satisfying your thirst for blood, it was about discrediting them publically. Turning them into a boogeyman. So much for the tolerant left! It’s genius. We saw that right away: the question was … Why would you do it?” He took a step back, and allowed himself a smug shrug. “You should keep your hypnotic control on the villagers even tighter, I think. Mrs. Marsh gave us our answer – an envoy of the President, coming straight to this town. I was wondering how you had slipped the radar, honestly. UNIT wasn’t at the peak of its powers back … now, but still, they had the means to detect you. And that’s not getting into the area 51 crew, or the Counter-Measures taskforce, whoever they are … Anyway, I digress – the truth of the matter is, you were detected, gentlemen. But instead of running around slicing FBI agents with these very dapper instruments of yours, you decided to cut a deal. To become the enforcers of the President’s will. Say what you want about him, but he’s a pragmatic man. All-powerful aliens that are more than happy to direct their hunger at his political opponents, stoking the fires of resentment and racial tension? It must have been manna from heaven. I’ve met him a couple times, you know. I wanted to see what he was like, considering time forbids me to do anything about him. Turns out, he thinks a lot of the citizens he cares for, and I use that term very loosely, are much more alien than you are.”

 

Maria stared at the creatures, her face pure hatred. The Noth were surprised, shocked even, but they soon stepped forwards, blue energy massing around the edge of their blades.

“So be it.” The boar stated with a dark glee. “The truth cannot get out. Such meddling won’t be tolerated by the temporal powers – but they don’t have to know if you perish here.”

“Well, most of you will die here,” the goat intervened. “But Eren Jal and I won’t kill the Time Lord. So much life in you, so much blood and energy … Oh, the wonders we will weave out of your skin and bones, sweet one …”

“Uh, before you do –“, the Doctor starting before throwing himself onto the ground to avoid a straight line of blue energy that tore through the night when Eren Jal, since that was their name, weaved their scythe in front of them, leaving scorch marks through the white fields. “- just that, you might want to check the time.”

The goat was about to strike the Doctor down with a blast from their own scythe, but Jal raised a fist. “It’s five to the seventh hour of this planet’s afternoon. What of it?”

Only the Doctor’s hair were visible from behind the log he had used as cover. It looked like someone has put a wig on some random tree. Channary had dragged the Noth victim, still staring blankly ahead, behind the cabin, with Maria following. His voice echoed through the trees.

“I mean, you didn’t think we would just come here unprepared? You’ve been haunting Maria for days, and now that phone call? Come on.”

 

“WHAT OF IT?!” the creature yelled.

“Well, it’s just that you might want to look behind you.”

And so they did, just in time to see …

 

 

-

**_Some long hours ago …_ **

 

There was a long, cold silence. You could almost feel it echoing inside the truck. And then Ben turned his face to the Doctor.

“That’s … Just a story, right?”

“That depends. Do you believe it is?”

Ben stopped his vehicle on the side of the road, and stared at the Doctor.

“You know what? Yeah. Yeah, I think I do.”

The Time Lord beamed.

“That’s absolutely wonderful, my dear fellow, because you know what, I think you could help us with something …”

 

 

-

 

… a truck, speeding ahead, right at them, having just switched its headlights on, the noise of its wheels dulled by the snow.

The Noth tried to dive away, but it was too late. It hit the goat head on – causing its body to dislocate in dark, whirling fumes. Eren Jal had dived away at the last minute, escaping with only their legs damaged, but as they tried to get up, Maria rushed to them, pulling out the axe she had hidden in her winter coat, and hacked away at their head, again and again. The wounds vomiting dark, thick smoke, the creature collapsed.

 

At this very moment, the woman, still carried by Channary, fell to the ground – she mouthed a silent “thank you” – and then her eyes went blank. Snowflakes were landing on her face, creating artificial, cold rivers of tears. She smiled, sighed, and collapsed.

Maria tried to help, to do something, but, as she was trying to determine whether giving mouth-to-mouth was appropriate in such a situation, the neurosurgeon lay a comforting hand on her shoulder.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. She was already dead – sustained only by the Noth’s psychic commands. At … At the very least, she died free.”

The woman shot her a dark glare. “Some doctor you are. Karen better not get the same treatment.”

 

Deauclaire recoiled as if she had been physically assaulted. She agreed, deep down. Maybe they could have saved her. She did not consider it. She had looked, and judged, and deemed this woman a lost cause. Who gave her the right? Once, she’d have tried everything, all the weirdest and most occult methods, to save a patient’s life. But then again, the shape lying in the snow wasn’t a patient. It was a casualty of war. You couldn’t care for them in the same way, because there was always something more, another victim to treat, another platoon to examine, another trench that must be climbed, another day of walking and pain and blood and mud. She mumbled a vague “I’m sorry”, and set out to arrange the body in a slightly more dignified position. Damage control. That’s what it all was. She wasn’t treating people, at this point – just shapes passing through the night and cold. Not even dignified with a name. Plot devices in the narrative of War, which, since the day it had been called forth at the birth of Time, riding a red horse, had never ceased to plague the human race.

The Doctor threw her a look – a compassionate, kind look. His eyes had a depth she had never quite noticed before. Deep pools of impenetrable stars. Standing there, in that dark forest, having just slain demons, he truly looked like a titan, or a wizard. His smile was the edge of a blade, a blade of pure magic piercing the sad and dour flesh of the world. And then, he turned his all-seeing eyes back at Ben, with whom he was conversing. Talking about how nicely timed his rescue was, after they had left him at the outskirts of the village and called him back on Maria’s phone … The two men were keeping at it. And Channary had never felt more alone.

She allowed the almost ritualistic gestures she had repeated so many times to take over her. Don’t think. Don’t feel. Just act. Finding some cloth to wrap the body into. Closing its – no, her – eyes. Searching for ID, for any clue as to her identity. Catalogue. Compartmentalize. Make it a piece of the puzzle. A footprint on the path. Collateral damage. There would always be some. And there would always be, she thought, emotional damage as well …

Her mind drifted to her family. She could still see Rita, her flaming curls and her kindhearted smile, putting on a brave face as they embraced in the spaceport, for what could very well be the last time … And the children – Lin had just learned to read, and she sent her mother audio messages of her stumbling her way across some naïve fairytales.

She felt like crying. She didn’t, though. She hadn’t the strength to cry, so she did what people always do in these situations. She got angry. Months and months of frustration exploded in a supernova of wrath. She wanted the Noth dead. She wanted to kill them, every last one of them, with her bare hands. Draw blood. Hear the dry crack of bones. Make them feel what they had made others feel.

She excused herself for a bit, took a few steps behind the cabin, and punched at one of the trees until her fist started going numb. That felt good. Freeing. And then, she just stared at the treetops, and the sky, now inky black. Gazing at the abyss. Waiting for it to gaze back.


	4. PART 3: The Secret Diaries of an Uncivil Servant, 1980-1981

Mr. Stephenson was used to waiting rooms. He was the kind of person that was born to use them. It’s like his back had been half-melted by the impressive array of comfy chairs he had had the opportunity to try all around the world. He had grown to like them, even. The trick was to not fight boredom, but learn to become one with it. Don’t bring books – I mean, what if the person you’re meeting doesn’t share your taste in literature? Way too much of a diplomatic faux-pas –. Just sit back, put your briefcase on your knees, and wait, your heartbeat slowly synchronizing with the tick-tock of the banal, beige office clock. He was an instrument of government – and he appreciated that. He enjoyed being sharp, cutting, efficient. He wanted to maximize his life to the fullest. Why put your body upon the gears when you can turn your body into gears? He could feel history, in all its movements, be them small and subtle or colossal beyond all measure, flowing through him. Some people like to fight – for justice, or just for the fun of it –. Some people like to feast – on drugs, on love, on wine. He just liked being useful. Being the right man for the right purpose. The master key for all locks. Black tie. White hair. Black suit. Grey eyes. Every piece of his being a touch of color in the palette of unthreatening neutrality.

Still. He would have expected the White House seats to be a little more comfy. For shame.

A couple hours passed. And then an envoy of the President-Elect came to him, ushering him towards a limousine waiting in front of the governmental house.

These were chaotic days. The passing of the torch had to look effortless, but it always was an incredible amount of work behind the scene. Moving into the future, with great commotion.

 

The car took him to the suburbia. A safe house, from the look of things. All good political campaigns have those. In case things get a little heated, or when you need somewhere to store sensitive aspects. He pushed the wooden door, and was a bit surprised to be greeted not by the familiar figure of his employer, but by the towering presence of a lion-headed man.

“Ah. Stephenson, is that your name? I am Arlian Noth. And I have a job for you.”

A _talking_ lion-headed man.

Well then.

Things were sure getting interesting.

 

 

-

 

He had heard the rumors, of course. Of Reagan’s connections among the Area 51 staff, of his old and powerful friends in California, from the time where he was governor … And of some prized possession he had wrestled away from the government during his campaign. He had expected funds. Maybe alien technology. Not so much living, breathing specimens.

Past the initial shock – even for a man like him, who had made himself a reputation for not being shocked by anything, and dealing only in reason and practical answers, it was quite a lot to take in – he found the prospect exhilarating. So much they could do, now …

 

He was pondering all these lovely possibilities examining a few folders that had been lent to him, curtesy of the Bureau. The poor feds, they had no idea of what their careful surveillance and cataloguing would be used for. Of course, they had to start small. He knew how to make people dance to his tune, and knew, consequentially, that you couldn’t just force your truth onto people. I mean, that’s why they didn’t shoot MLK. They had to wait for someone to do that. Don’t go too big, expose the lies, create martyrs. Start small. Little stories, little seeds. Creating, soon enough, strong and sturdy roots – and under the trees the little white children would dance in merriment.

He sipped at his coffee. His wife had made it – a special attention. She was fast asleep in their bedroom by now, while he was still considering the documents in front of him from the comfort of his study. He liked his wife. Not really as a person, because that would mean she had personality. No, just because she was really good at being a wife, just like he was really good at being a fixer. Those were jobs, and they were employees of the month. Twenty years together – that was a good run, and their matrimony was an efficiently run bit of business.

A picture caught his attention. Amanda Jones. Not unattractive. For her age. Bit of an activist. Ties to some violent groups. She would do. She would do very nicely. He turned the page – there were some more pictures, black and white snapshots of her putting up posters on the street. He couldn’t quite make out the tagline. Not that he cared. He thought about this woman – smart enough, he supposed. After all, she was accepted in some top colleges, before accepting to have children with a black man, debasing herself by walking around these foul streets, trying desperately to give her life some meaning by telling her betters to go fuck themselves … After all the haranguing and the walks and the posters and the posturing, she probably had to, every evening, go back to a bunch of children doomed to fail, hanging laundry and cooking dinner, rough hands stained with fat and pre-processed food. The thought almost made him smile. That was the way of life, wasn’t it?

Slowly, he drew a red cross across her face, and put her file on a separate pile. More fuel for the machine.

 

 

-

 

Lawrence’s Cross, Minnesota.

 

The belly of the beast.

He parked his car near the local inn, in his usual neat and tidy way, and scanned his surroundings. It was almost night. Dinnertime, the invitation had said. He wasn’t sure of what exactly dinner with the Noth would entail. It didn’t matter, really – all that mattered was for the plan to go ahead as agreed. He carried with him, in his eternal suitcase, a new bunch of files he had painstakingly selected. It was time to go global. This little village didn’t look like much, but, very soon, it would a base of operations casting its shadow across the entire country. What better place, too? It was all small comfy houses and odours of rich food in the evening sky. This, he thought, is what America must look like _. In saecula saeculorum_. It was … A pattern. A pattern they would soon transmit to the rest of the world. Every speech the President gave carried the seed of this dream, of this new, pure, clean order. In a few years, there would only be variations on Lawrence’s Cross, from New Mexico to Chicago. Sunny ones, snowy ones, grassy ones – but little pockets of armed, smiling, god-fearing freemen, devoted to the shining future. Oh, those would be the days …

 

Not a lot of people in the streets, he noticed. It made sense. His associates needed prey. It was a shame, it really was, but also a necessity, covered up by serving some stories about roadblocks and family vacations and people being detained by the police in distant cities. He was sure the locals would have agreed. These people probably knew what sacrifice really meant. It wasn’t like they were making them pay more taxes …

As he walked towards the city hall, he spotted a silhouette leaning on the side of the church. It was a woman – black leather uniform, pale skin, dark eyes. Once he was close enough, though, he was forced to reconsider that initial assessment. It really was not a woman – it just looked like one. Her face … Did not fit. The eyes were too colorful, like splashes of bright paint onto white canvas; the skin like a porcelain mask about the crack with any touch; and, above all, there was a slight delay in all its-her movements. Smiling too late and too wide, moving the head and eyelids in planes that most people would have never even considered, least of all attempted. It made sense – he had only ever seen the visitors wearing their feral shapes, but they never said they couldn’t also pose as humans. It probably was how they managed to get to all the … clients. The lady grimaced a smile, and then accompanied him to the city hall, holding the door for him, and then taking his coat and hanging it on …

… A woman. It was a woman. A live woman. Well, she wasn’t moving a muscle. Paralyzed, he supposed, considering the way her eyes darted left and right, panicked, but unable to cry, the tear ducts frozen as if someone has poured glue into them. She was naked, or close to, arranged in a sophisticated fashion to mimic a Greek odalisque. And they just hanged clothes on her raised arms. He remembered her name – Katia? Karen? No importance, but he still didn’t like it. Not that he was shocked – you don’t supervise the digging of communal death pits for rebel villages in South America without picking up a stomach like steel –. But it was distasteful. A bit too hands-on for him, really.

 

A look at what lay further in the room sadly did nothing to shake that feeling away. It had once been your typical entry hall, with big wooden stairs and steel chandelier, trying oh so very hard for that sturdy and quiet rural vibe but not really rising above banality. And in parts, it still was. A couple tables had been set near the doors, where ordinary human beings were having a party, a little fancy dinner in suits, with a lot of wine. Teenagers, a lot of middle-aged folks, and a couple older war vets. One had an eye missing. But further in, the ground had caved in, creating a vast semi-natural cavern, an underbelly where stone seemed to melt with metal plates and bits of wires hanging in a deep blue light. So that’s where the spaceship went. A few precarious steps had been carved in the stone, and, down below, under the orange glow of the lightbulbs and the blue glow of alien power cells, a large banquet table had been set.

 

They were all there. At first glance, maybe a dozen, including his escort. Arlian Noth had traded his lion mane for the face of some second rate actor he apparently had eaten (in more ways than one, his informants said) in a gas station in Texas. Among his cohorts, he could see the profiles of a grizzly bear, a crane, some kind of octopus, two or three squirrels massed together, and some other, strange animals full of scales and feathers whose colors his eyes did not even register.

The table were of ordinary metal; but next to them stood another group of frozen supplicants – one used as a footstool, another one carrying in his frozen arms a silver platter filled with caviar, a few just standing around, carrying torches or colorful pieces of cloth, or sometimes staying there unmoving, as statues, living proofs of applied power. They had been at it for quite a while, too, he supposed. They were nowhere near the pristine condition of the coat hanger – thinned by hunger and privations, their ribs showing like so many pointy teeth in a gaping mouth; their emaciated flesh marked by blue and red sores, by abuse, time and frost.

Arlian invited him to come forwards, with a dramatic hand gesture. He was leaning in his chair, legs crossed, one feet almost on the table. Unbearably smug. He had left a seat, just next to him, for the civil servant. As he stepped down and caught more details of the obscene tableau – which the rest of the citizens remained blissfully unaware of –, he became persuaded, without quite being able to point out why, that this whole arrangement was meant to echo the Last Supper, as painted in those Renaissance frescoes. He wasn’t an especially godly man, seeing religion as a tool more than a calling, but it did nothing to chase away his increasing unease.

He sank in the chair. It was better. He still had to look at all the living corpses, and at the happy townspeople eating and drinking without realizing the scope of the occult forces bursting and bubbling beneath their feet. But that wasn’t as bad as the fixed, unmoving eyes of the Noth staring at him – at his very being.

 

“So, Arlian of the house of Noth. You’ve got … quite a party going on.”

The “man”, and quotations marks were never more apropos, smiled a gaping smile.

“I do think so, yes. It’s got nothing on the feasts we used to have on the homeworld, but we have to make do. I hope it’s not distressing you too much.”

The question was asked with a subtle point of venom. It was a test. Trying to ascertain the mettle of whoever was standing in front of him. Stephenson refused to take the bait.

“No, not at all. Of course, to many in this country it could appear uncivilized, but the United States of America have always prided themselves on their tolerance of religions and creeds. Why should we forego these principles simply because the immigrants we’re taking in come from another world?”

“Oh, what kindness you show. And after all, our beliefs are quite similar. You might believe these things are cruelty – to the exterior observer, they often do. I don’t blame them. They just don’t understand the nature of Life. So many people, of all races, genders and origins, don’t live. Look at them, up there, eating. That’s all they do. Eating, working, dying. Isn’t it better to embrace destruction, to embrace a single moment of absolute emotion, absolute power, absolute feelings? Civilizations, politics, time – all of that is fleeting. But the animalistic realities of sentient life, the realities of hunter and prey, of blood and sweat, of pleasure and pain: these are constant. These are principles worth building an order around. Aren’t they, my brethren?”

 

A thunderous “AYE!” echoed through the crater.

“I have no opinion, but I respect your right to freely express yourself,” grimaced Stephenson, in a pale attempt at neutrality.

“But you must have, surely! You too believe in the importance of rituals, of sacrifices.”

“Not since the Aztec times, no we don’t.”

“Well, didn’t you sacrifice the Aztecs to your crucified god, just like they offered the beating hearts of their citizens to Huitzilopochtli? And even now, it keeps going – you understand that preserving a system of values is well worth the death of a few outliers. I actually appreciate the way you go about it – we’re fond of doing the job ourselves, but you have managed to make the process automatic. Every few weeks, a few people will die of cold or hunger, or be shot by your militias. And their blood will adorn the golden thrones of your idols and masters, bathing in riches and pleasure. We have a lot in common – we just adhere to a more egalitarian view of things, where all the hunters, and even the preys, enjoy the thrill of the hunts and the ecstasy of blood. Oh, Garshi, pass me that cup, would you, I’m ravenous!”

The envoy made the mistake of looking inside the gilded recipient. It was filled with pale, bloodshot globes bathing in some kind of transparent vinegar. His senses refused to understand for a second, but the realization dawned on him when a movement of the cup made them roll away, revealing identical blue irises staring right at him. Eyeballs. Pickled human eyeballs. All the same, too – and then the eye-patch worn by the old man near the door made a lot more sense.

Arlian had followed his horrified expression with a grin, and, picking one of them, started to gnaw at it, not breaking eye contact. “They say these are the windows of the soul, on this world, don’t they? I don’t know about that, but they taste delicious. Don’t worry, we didn’t raid the neighboring towns for these. They are organically grown. We picked one of the townsfolk to be our farm. Harvest every couple hours, make sure it regrows, and back it at we go.” His teeth, at this point, had pierced the surface, and white pulp was leaking onto his chin, without him doing anything to stop the unsavory display. “The idea came from one of your myths. Prometheus, as I recall. It was all the rage last time I was gallivanting around your” – a slurp – “ _delicious_ planet.”

“Oh. Wonderful,” answered Stephenson, who most assuredly did not find that wonderful. “Hum. Speaking of, what is there to eat, outside of … these?”

_Please don’t answer “who”. Please don’t answer “who”._

“I think you mean - _who_ is there to eat?”

_Fuck._

“See, it’s a rather amusing conceit we thought of. Praying on someone is one thing, but what if you could actually cook them and season them while they’re still alive? Feeling the salt and pepper go inside their heart, their lungs being sautéed with some eggs and white wine, their intestines being turned to sausage. All in real time. We just had to decapitate her, and … Oh, dammit. Where did you put the head?”

A lot of confused looks among the crowd.

“Don’t tell me you lost the head. It was the most amusing part!”

The crane-headed Noth spoke, a deep bass voice booming out of their bill – “I think Garshi left it in the kitchen.”

The grizzly bear answered, an offended look on his snout, “Don’t blame me! I was fine-tuning the neural interface all afternoon. Nobody told me … Oh, fine, I’ll go, wait a second.”

“Can I get some wine? It is wine, right? Just wine?” Stephenson asked, pleading, as the bear was disappearing into an opening in the ground, next to the walls of the spaceship.

“Yes, of course”. Arlian, with a commanding gesture, commanded one of the Noth to fill his glass. “You’re sure you don’t want to eat anything?”

“I’m not … very hungry.”

“Such a shame. It’s a really good meal.”

“Wait” – the voice belonged to the woman who had escorted him to the building – “maybe we can give him one of these little boxes we picked up on the way to the village? So he can eat later?”

“Oh, yes. Good point. That’s a great idea, you people had. Those little plastic rectangles to keep food. Much more aesthetically pleasing, and handy, than a freezing unit. Don’t require electricity either, it’s quite lovely.”

“… Tupperware?”

“Yes! That’s it, thanks for helping me remember. We bought a bunch, stored them in the ship. If we get back to Kor Aboros one of these days, we’ll have taken so many samples! From the fauna and the inhabitants. Last week, one of my followers tagged along with one of your border patrols next to Mexico, he really discovered some fascinating … ethnic food, there. But I digress. If you’re not hungry, just grab one of those on the way out. It’ll be a shame for it to go to waste, and I’m sure we can teach all of you a thing or two about the pleasures of authentic fine dining. Ah, here comes Garshi with our head guest. Eh eh.”

 

The head, presented on a platter, was topped by a mane of black and white hair. Severed at the neck, but without any drop of blood polluting the clear skin. She had put her make-up and combed her hair, ready for a great occasion. Her eyes were vacant. Her smile, wide and artificial. Some kind of artificial implant, no larger than a pinhead and emitting, in semi-regular intervals, a pale blue light, had been shoved in her right temple, just below the hairline.

“We had a lottery. She won. Hello Mrs. Marsh, how are you doing?”

The victim turned her eyes to Arlian. “Fine, thank you sir. It’s … a very interesting experience.”

“Not too painful?”

“At first, yeah. When I felt the skin sizzle away and the blood being drained from my veins and the marrow being drained from my bones. Not now though. I’m still connected to it all. I can feel myself being consumed. It’s … fascinating.”

“Eat, my children, for this is My Body”, said one of the squirrels.

“Quite right, brother. Blessed art thee who come to my Supper. See, Stephenson? We’re no savages. I’ll prove it to you. Pass me a piece of heart, will you?” The hors d’oeuvre in question was a piece of seasoned meat, covered with some kind of exotic spice. A little toothpick was cutting through it, to make it easier to eat. Arlian grabbed it, and offered it to Mrs. Marsh, or rather her head, who wrapped her lips around her own heart and suckled the aromatized blood from it. She smiled, and offered quiet, demure thanks.

And then the lights went out.

The lightbulbs on the chandelier had exploded; the spaceship had gone dark.

Silence fell.

When the blue light of the alien engines started to fill the room again, there was a man standing in front of the congregation.

 

 

-

 

The Doctor was facing the Noth.

He wasn’t especially enthusiastic about it. I mean, it wasn’t the only time he stared down a crowd of angry homicidal aliens, but usually he didn’t catch them right in the middle of dinner. There was something a bit wrong about that. It would be like falling on a Dalek renewing its protein supplies while making a dramatic monologue about their doomed to failed worldview; or on a Yeti being busy on the loo. No education, these ones.

“Ah. The Doctor, yes? I was told you might show up. Dramatic entrance. I approve.”

He turned his eyes to the obvious leader of the group, slouching in his chair, gazing at him intensely.

“Well, yes. A bit predictable, perhaps, but I thought the circumstances were deserving of a certain level of pomp, don’t you?”

“Absolutely. I would invite you to join us at the dinner table, but I’m afraid you’re not here for that.”

“I am very much not, no. This stops. Right here. Right now. Your revels now have ended.”

“Excuse me” – the voice came from a short, angry, tired-looking human male that occupied the seat next to the commander, “who exactly are you?! I am Jake Stephenson, personal envoy of the President, and you will surrender yourself to my and Arlian Noth’s authority, or, son, you’re in for a world of tr-“

“Oh, do keep quiet.” The Doctor’s voice could have frozen a mammoth in its tracks. “What makes you think you have any right to speak to me? What makes you think you have any right to look another human being in the eyes, or even be considered one, after what you did today?! Be the good lapdog you’ve always been, and SHUT UP!” His fury was palpable; he had almost shouted, his words echoing through the domed temple.

Arlian, since that was his name, offered the Time Lord a delightfully caustic smile. He held the severed head of the innkeeper in front of him, and spoke:

“I have a question, in turn. Well, rather, me and my little friend here. Say hello, Marshy.”

“Hello!” the cadaveric head chimed, chipper.

“Good girl. What makes you think, exactly, that you can stop us?”

Two of the Noth had left the table, slowly advancing towards the Doctor. He didn’t speak, but only raised one finger, as a warning. The alien killers stopped. Then, very slowly, the Doctor pointed the finger at the feasting citizens. Who were now gazing, eyes wide and full of disbelief, at the crater and the ceremony.

 

 

-

 

**EARLIER THAT DAY**

 

Deauclaire had expected something bad, but she still wasn’t prepared for it.

Gaining access to the Noth ship had been surprisingly easy. They didn’t know her face, after all. Following the Doctor’s plan, she just had waited for them to call some locals into their kitchens, and then infiltrated the group of confused-looking men and women (no children, and for that she was eternally graceful), looking at her feet as they were led to the dark underbelly of the town. The aliens didn’t pay much attention to their future dinner. They didn’t have to – hypnotic control. It was easy for her to sneak out and find a dark corner to wait. Leaving all these people alone didn’t feel good, but the Time Lord had assured her that they wouldn’t be killed – a few organs harvested and replicated, at most. The Noth were great believers in ethical trade and consummation. The main course would have been prepared in advance – it was too late for whoever it was.

As it turned out, it was Mrs. Marsh. When Channary entered the main kitchen area, after the Noth in charge, some kind of hyena, had left to pursue an errand, she saw her, lying on a slab. Every body part had been carefully pulled away and disposed on a table – heart, still beating somehow; raw reddish liver; fingers delicately severed and sealed in a jar like monstrous pickles. Only her head had remained intact – her eyes closed, as if she were sleeping. From the neck stump, her nervous system was still spreading, somehow left intact. You could almost reconstitute the frame of what had been a woman by following the little purple vessels, cascading like coral-coloured vines.

Deauclaire tried really hard to ignore all that, and took a quick look at Marsh’s forehead. The implant was there, just as planned. The thing that would keep her alive through the whole process. She tuned it so that it would reduce the pain she would soon endure as much as possible, and then introduced, within its structure, the small device that Doctor had given her – not a hard job with a scalpel and years of practice working on bio-neural interfaces.

“It should create a surcharge”, she thought as she went back into hiding, planning her next move with cold anger. “And then …”

 

 

-

 

“And then, we bash the thingie?” Ben asked.

“Well … Yeah. That’s roughly it”, Maria answered.

The two were sitting in the bearded man’s truck. Maria had slept through the day, feeling safe for the first time in ages. And now, she was drinking some foul schnapps the trucker had kept concealed in a compartment beneath his seat. She should have felt terrified, but she wasn’t – maybe that was just the liquid courage pulsing through her veins, but there was more to it than that. She had an enemy, now.  It had been so hard, not knowing what was happening, why she had to endure all these things. But now she could name the evil, understand it. And cut it out. She could feel her best friend, so close now. She could get her back. She could change … Well, not the world, but her world, at least. Make something happen in America, by focusing her anger.

“I mean, don’t ask me, Ben. I’m a small town librarian. The most adventurous thing I did before today was reading the Little Red Riding Hood to elementary school kids. I only know what the Doctor said – the dish in that field in front of us, that looks just like any other one, is apparently the source of the mind control the aliens have on the town. I mean, didn’t take much effort, if you want my opinion, a lot of them didn’t have a lot of mind to begin with.”

 

Ben took over, stating all the steps of the plan like a pupil trying to prove he had learnt the day’s lesson. “But we can’t go in straight away because there’s a … wall of force thing, so we have to wait until the doctor, that is, the chick that’s an actual doctor, not the guy that just calls himself the Doctor, causes a big electric kaboom. And then we just go and bash the thing. With a truck.”

“You like plans that involve trucks, don’t you?”

“Eh, you can talk. I saw you with that axe.”

She laughed. “Yeah. I’m gonna keep it, I think. As a sign of good luck.” She looked at the night sky. “Ben?”

“Yeah?”

“How did you get involved in all this?”

“Well, I picked the two weirdos up, they told me a story about Indian cannibals, and then I ran over some aliens.”

“Uh.”

“Yeah, wasn’t imagining that would happen. Life’s surprising, sometimes, I guess. Reminds me of that one time in Kentucky with the pig and the three drunk policemen … Nah, who am I kidding. There was more to it. It’s like … I always thought I could just … Slide away. Not have to care about people, or the country, or whatever happened. And then that stupid-looking dude shows up and tells me I can be part of something. Something greater, something better. A bit like the President, I guess. Except true. So … What did I have to lose?”

They smiled at each other.

“Well. I guess we wait, now. You know any good songs to sing?” asked Maria.

 

 

-

 

“… and then the blast took all your force fields down.” The Doctor was still presenting his narrative, smirking away. “That includes the one protecting the engine room. Guess where Deauclaire is? Not with me, that’s where. You will have to say goodbye to this ship, I’m afraid. Oh, and we called UNIT, too. They’ll show up in approximately a couple hours.”

His face grew stone cold, as he took a step forward, his eyes burning with anger. “I don’t make idle threats, Noth. You should have known better than to treat me as prey. When I am here, you are the hunted.”

A lot of the townspeople had fled, but some were now pointing weapons of their own at the aliens, most of whom hadn’t had time to grab their imposing scythes.

“Yes, well, this is America, isn’t it? I don’t like guns much, but I think that’s a problem we can deal with tomorrow.”

The Noth were all staring at him and the villagers, desperately searching for a solution, an escape. Arlian looked to the ground, an air of utmost desperation to him. Stephenson, in the confusion, had already left, escaping by the tunnel leading to the kitchens.

“And for my next trick,” the Doctor beamed, “my associate will definitely cut all power to your ship, in three, two, one …”

He waited for tell-tale whizz of energy cells fizzling out and dying, but instead, the supernatural blue glow of the Noth starship only got brighter and brighter, to the point where looking straight at it hurt, unearthly light burnt in your retinas.

“No, no, no, this shouldn’t be happening. What is she doing?!”

As the villagers were encircling the belligerent creatures, he followed Stephenson in the hole, into the entrails of the warship.

 

 

-

 

Channary was working hard and fast on the keyboard, her fingers locked in a furious dance. The gothic vaulted ceiling of the Noth ship, all black steel and great spires leaking blue lighting, made every gesture of her echo as she kept on entering commands in the mainframe.

Steps behind her. She turned, ready to face whoever was coming.

The Doctor. She should have been glad, but in that situation, she might have preferred one of the Imperium goons.

“Deauclaire. This wasn’t our plan.”

She sighed. “I know it isn’t. I’m not stupid. Or blind.”

“You’re putting the ship in overdrive. You’ll kill them all.”

Her fists and teeth clenched, she advanced towards him. “Yes. Yes I will. Serves them right, doesn’t it?”

 

“You can’t do that.”

“Why not? Why can’t I?”

“You’re a doctor.”

“Yes. And they are a disease. When I open someone’s skull, I don’t weep for the brain tumor. Neither should you. Compassion … Is something you earn.”

“You swore an oath, remember. You and the Caduceus Company. Protect Life. Under all its forms.”

“What does that even mean?! The Noth also say they want to protect and preserve life. And look what they’ve done. Look at the waste, the sheer size of it. So many lives ruined, so many people violated and destroyed in so many hideous ways. It cannot go on, Doctor. I … I cannot go on.”

He raised his hand, almost as if to offer a handshake. A timid smile on his lips, while she was almost starting to cry.

“You don’t have to.”

“I have to. And if it means that I can’t be a doctor, well, so be it. We all have a breaking point, Doctor. This is mine. I’m not sure you have one, and … I hate you for it, truth be told. I hate that you’re able to just walk away. To free yourself from cause and effect. Because that’s all it is, in the end, isn’t it? It’s life. C’est la vie. This crazy life I’ve sworn to protect, even if it kills me. Even if it makes me into someone that’s basically unrecognizable. A silhouette on a battlefield. A number. A corpse.”

A tremor shook the ground beneath them – the light was keeping on pulsating, always stronger, always more powerful.

“I understand.”

“Do you? Do you really?”

“I do. I’ve seen this look, Chan. On so many people. Sometimes, it was on the face of my friends. And sometimes, I … failed to notice it. To see the problem, to realize I was part of it. I understand your choice. I don’t want to tell you that it’s not meaningful. Or wrong. I’m just saying that you don’t have to suffer alone. We can try to … make the best of it. Together. Try to find the best way forwards.”

She was shaking, now, physically affected by the tidal waves of conflicting emotions that, repressed, were finally coming to light in this place of darkness.

“I’m sorry, Doctor.”

“Don’t be. Or rather, allow me to be sorry with you.”

 

They stepped forwards, and he hugged her tightly, wrapping her in a comfortable, warm embrace, as sparks were starting to rain from the ceiling.

The Doctor broke the moment of intimacy, and stepped towards the console, entering a few additional lines to Channary’s program.

And then, he turned towards her, taking her hand, and uttering that one word, that one magic word all great adventures begin with –

“Run!”

 

 

-

 

There was an explosion. But no fire, no heat. Just a gust of wind traversing the forests, strong enough to shake your very soul.

The Doctor and Channary emerged from a little mound of snow in the forest. The time-traveler allowed himself a smug smile. There was, indeed, a back entrance. The Noth would have had needed a discrete way to leave the town and wander in the forest. There was a body lying nearby – Stephenson. The explosion had knocked him out, apparently. The Doctor ascertain, though, that, with his warm clothes, he wouldn’t be in any danger, so both of them ignored the man.

Channary had to stop and rest, an arm against the rock formation that marked the tunnel’s entrance. “What did you do to their ship?”

“It was too late to stop the energy burst, but not too late to channel it to another place. I directed it right at the time engines, jumpstarting them and sending them straight back where they came from. 4703, in the arms of the International Earth Corps. Mission accomplished, soldier!” he tried to joke, with a feeble salute.

 

Channary didn’t answer.

“There’s a log nearby,” the Doctor observed. “We can share. If you want to.”

They sat together, in the quiet cold. There was no one in sight. No war, no hunt – just the peace, and the snowflakes raining on.

“I can’t go back”, she finally said, staring straight ahead. “I thought I could. I know I must. But I can’t. I still believe the Noth deserved to die, for the record. But the anger. The desperation. These I can’t deal with. I didn’t want to kill them because it was the right thing to do. I wanted to kill them because it would have felt good. And I don’t want this. I don’t want to get to the point where bullets start to feel more appealing than pills. But I start thinking about what could happen to them. Rita. Our kids. They could be the next on these operating tables, Doctor. More people that I just couldn’t save – when I sabotaged the implant, I tried to come up with a way to save Marsh, but she was too far gone, neural decay was already setting in.”

“You feel like to you need to fight.”

“What are we if we don’t try to fight for what’s right? You’ve seen what the world is like. It’s the only thing that’s worth it, Doctor. I have to believe that.”

“I understand. I respect that. I’m not asking you to run away from the battlefield, Chan. I mean, I could – we could go right now, go back to the seaside resort where I left Mel off, and keep going, through the universe, for ever and ever. But I know you. I’m just offering you a possibility to choose where you want to stand.”

“What do you mean?”

He looked to the skies – his eyes, his impossibly deep eyes, seeming to stare at the fabric of history itself, woven in stars.

“This Earth, this country, is going to be shaken by impossibly large events soon. There will be … a plague. A terrible plague, killing millions, while the government stands there and does nothing. They could use a doctor. History wouldn’t change, but lives could be saved. Vulnerable, fragile, fleeting, beautiful lives.”

Channary’s eyes lit up.

“You would still be fighting,” the Doctor continued. “But on your own terms. Not a soldier – only a doctor.”

“How long will it …?”

“Ah. See, I have a solution for that.” He pulled, from his pocket, a small golden ring, with no identifiable markings. “This is a Time Ring. Basic time-travel device. It won’t allow you to move through time – you need the pair for that –, but it carries software from my people. Universal translator, and, more to the point, ageing inhibitors when you’re outside your own time zone. You could stay on here for as long as you wish, or until your work is done. And I could visit, every now and then. Keeping up with you. Taking you to see Rita for a bit.”

Channary smiled. “When I imagined opening a private practice one day, this isn’t exactly the kind of place I pictured.”

“It wouldn’t be easy. You would be at risk – your very self makes you vulnerable here. I’m just asking if you are interested.”

 

For the last few months, Channary Deauclaire’s life had been a blur. A confusing havoc of thunder and gunfire. Her life, her decisions, were all automatic movements, reflexes made in the night, in the fog, in confusion. But in that moments, things had never been clearer. The veil she had worn, without even realizing it, this cloak of mourning and death, had been torn apart in an instant.

“Yeah, colleague. Yeah, I am.”

 

 

-

 

_UNIT Mission Report: USA-1981-#42: Lawrence’s Cross Incident_

  * _Undetermined casualties due to Noth interference. Rescue by the Doctor caused no victims. Civilians Ben Davies and Maria Parker evacuated the townsfolk out of the blast zone._
  * _Retcon therapy recommended for the entire village, except aforementioned Maria Parker + Noth victim named MANTZOUKAS, Karen (see file), who refused it._
  * _Science advisor [The Doctor] recommended reparation operations on Noth victims across the country. Ongoing project._
  * _Noth signatures added to frequencies surveillance. Development of targeted protocols shall follow._



 

-

 

Stephenson woke up in the back of a car. That was a bit of a surprise. Even more surprising was the fact he was tied up, duct tape over his mouth.

The women in the front turned back, looking at him. The driver he had never seen before – a black girl, not the kind of person he would have paid any attention to anyway. He did recognize the one in the passenger seat, though. She was thin, and sickly-looking, currently covered by a warm blanket and nursing a cup of cocoa. Karen Mantzoukas, the darkest of all glares fixed on his sweaty brow. How was she alive …? How did their allies lose so easily to … to a freaking beatnik! It made no sense to him. No sense at all. And that was all the more terrible to a man that had always considered himself, from his birth to now, as the most sensible person on God’s pure Earth.

“Good. You’re awake. My name’s Maria. You probably don’t care. I know your name, though. Stephenson. Yeah, I know you alright. Not you personally, but the type. Let me tell you a little story. That was when I was in middle school. It’s lonely, as a black kid in these little villages, I can tell you. I’ve always been lonely, until I met Karen.

Anyway. One of these days, there was a contest. For a school trip – they hadn’t the funds to take the whole of the county’s schools, so they picked a few kids at random from each of them. I was picked. Voyage to England – damn, I was so freaking excited. And it was really good. Fun. Nice country, nice places. Until that one day, where we visit this big old fancy-looking mansion. And in one of the rooms, there’s this piece of furniture, in front of the fireplace. A couple of statues, carrying plates. Except they’re not just any statues – they’re black people. A man and a woman. You know the picture, slave bodies, laboring under the effort, all that stuff. Turns out, the wealth that built that mansion came out of trading in spices, and sugar, and tobacco. I mean, the guy who actually did the building seemed like a fine enough bloke, as they say down there. He got these in heritage from an uncle of his, slave owner in the New World. Still, might have been nice, but he still displayed them. I dunno who the models were. But his ancestor made them into things. Into products. And he kept using these products, in front of his cozy little fireplace in his cozy little bedroom. And I realized, damn, these people, they look just like me. I didn’t enjoy the trip so much, after that. Or life, for that matter.

But sometimes I’d tell myself this story, about how it was all in the past. I mean, I didn’t believe it, not for one second, but I liked the sound of it. And then I saw Karen this evening. The folks from the town all cleared off, taking the ones these Noth creatures used as interior decoration with them. And I saw her. Turned into a statue, just like those. Honestly, it’s kind of better than those. Morally, I mean. Because it’s honest, you know? Honest and impartial. These creatures, these things, they were monstrous. I’ll have nightmares about them. But they’re still better than you. Because they didn’t pretend that it all was necessary. That it was good. That it had a higher purpose. They didn’t put their fucking insane ideas into laws and codes and speeches. They were monsters. But they were not American.”

 

You could almost taste the silence.

“So I guess you’re wondering what we’re gonna do with you, uh? Well, we’re not gonna kill you or anything. There’s all these UNIT people at the scene, right now. They’re distributing these little pills to make people forget, repairing the town hall. They don’t want a lynch mob on their hands. Now, see, Karen told me about you. About what the aliens said about you. You’re a kind of man from the shadows, the sort no one but the highest powers knows about. And that gave us an idea. ‘Cause the President isn’t going to be very happy about this whole business. Really, given the chance, he will much prefer to pretend nothing ever happened. You’re a loose end. I guess you could crawl back to him and make your apologies, but it’ll be a lot simpler if you just … disappear. So that’s what’s going to happen.

Except it won’t be following your wishes, your agenda. We decide how. We’ve been driving all day – that thing really knocked you out, uh? We’re gonna drop you on the side of the road. No ID. No money – we’ve took the liberty of taking your wallet, sorry about that. Wait, no, we’re not sorry. Lots of money, you had, should pay for a nice comfy practice for Karen, and hell, I might even go to college with that! You’ll only get the clothes you have on your back. And from there on, it’s rely on the kindness of strangers or starve. I think that’s fair, don’t you? Karma and all.”

The two women shared a friendly wink, and Stephenson yelled through his gag. But his anger made no sound. For the first time in his life, he could not speak his mind.

“Welcome to the human race. We hope you enjoy your stay”, whispered Karen.


	5. EPILOGUE: An American Funeral in Spring

_Have you seen our saucers?_  
_You see our lights in your western skies, California's rainbow skies_  
 _Your government tells you another missile is flying;_  
 _Have you any idea why they're lying, to you, to your faces_?

The music was soothing to the little girl. It had been the favourite song of her father, when he was still alive.

She wasn’t entirely sure what had happened to him. She knew how shocked she had been. How brutal the loss had been. But the details had become blurry. The police had questioned her, and then there were other people, from some kind of international organization. They had given her medicine, and now she felt better. Sad, but better. A natural kind of sadness.

Her mother was crying, by the headstone. She had been away. To prison, maybe? She wasn’t quite sure. It was absurd, of course. Her mother couldn’t have hurt anyone, she was too kind for that.

Joy Jones was feeling that sadness, too, but she couldn’t face her mother, and the place where her father lay. It was too much. So she was running, across the graveyard, and the green trees under the big blue sky. Leaves brushing her tear-stained face, and always the voice of Grace Slick, a distant dream as she kept on running. As she jumped and ducked, she almost seemed like a bird – a new eagle for the American skyline. She passed old dusty mausoleums, the sun falling on their tops and giving them golden crowns; she passed an old man reading the news, catching something about the death of a small town politician being associated with a mafia conspiracy. She ran until she could run no more.

It was a small clearing, with a bench. A quiet grove, removed from the world.

There was a woman there. In meditation, or maybe prayer. She smiled at her. “Hi, Joy. Want to join me?”

The little girl carefully sat near her. The tears, after all that effort, were slowly catching up with her.

 

“How do you know my name?” she finally asked, realizing how strange that was.

“I was to the funeral. I came a long way away to see it. I had some help from a friend, though. Oh, and there’s the Doctor, too. A silly old man in a many-coloured coat. But that’s another story.”

“Why did you come?”

“Because I wanted to be sure you were alright. You and your mum. I wanted to see a little girl that was growing strong and happy. To remind me of what I fight for. I guess … I had a duty of care.”

“You’re weird”, the girl laughed.

“Yeah”, the woman laughed. “Guess I am.”

“What’s your name?”

“I’m Deauclaire”, she answered, pulling something out of her pocket. “Would you like a jelly baby?”

 _Star children on the black road to salvation;_  
_You've got to care for the needs of your planet;_  
_Children of the forest and child of the Woodstock nation;_  
_Catch the dawn that once was there …_

The child and the doctor remained there.

Under an American sunset.

_First born atomic generation  
Open the door: don't you know that's what it's for?_


End file.
